fl  poet  of  ttye  people  apd 

• 

/}fter  Sixty  Years. 


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By  B.  0. 


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Three  Works  by  B.  0.  FLOWER,  with  Critical  Press  Opinion. 


GERALD  MASSEY:  Poet,  Prophet  and  Mystic. 

A  study  of  the  life  and  thought  of  England's  Poet  of  the  People. 

ILLUSTRATED   BY   LAURA   LEE. 
Price,  extra  cloth,  $1.00. 

Golden  Opinions  from  Loading  Critical  Journals. 

A  SCHOLARLY  WORK  REVEALING  THE  INNER  LlFE  OF  THE  POET.     Mr.    B.  O.  Flower's 

latest  work  is  a  scholarly  discussion  of  the  life  and  work  of  Massey,  poet,  prophet  and 
mystic.  One  of  the  feature  chapters  is  that  in  which  the  author  traces  the  points  of  re- 
semblance between  Massey  and  Whittier.  There  are  frequent  quotations  from  the  poet, 
but  they  are  none  too  frequent,  since  they  reveal  to  us  the  inner  life  of  the  man.— Z>«z7y 

Advertiser,  Boston  Mass. 

"*V 
FINEST  PRESENTATION  OF  THE  POET'S  CHARACTER  WHICH  HAS  APPEARED  IN  THE 

NEW  WORLD.  A  most  appreciative  and  tender  tribute  to  one  of  England's  lesser  but 
noble  song  writers.  No  such  presentation  of  the  poet's  character  and  work  has  yet  been 
seen  on  this  side  the  water. — Daily  Traveler,  Boston. 

A  VOLUME  WHICH  WILL  FIND  A  HIGH  ^CHE  AMONG  THE  ELECT.      Mr     B.  O     Flowers 

appreciation  of  the  beauty  and  strength  of  Gerald  Massey's  nature  and  work  is  so  enthu- 
siastic yet  so  spiritually  true-tempered  th^he  is  better  qualified  than  almost  any  one  to 
deal  with  the  subject  as  he  has  in  his  latest  book  :  "  Gerald  Massey:  Poet,  Prophet  and 
Mystic."  So  true  a  soul  as  Mr.  Massey's  deserves  just  such  direct  and  sympathetic 
treatment  as  that  here  given  by  Mr.  Flower,  and  it  is  a  delight,  as  well  as  inspiration  and 
benefit,  to  contemplate  the  picture  of  his  life  as  drawn  by  Mr.  Flower  from  Mr.  Massey's 
own  words  and  writings,  conducted  and  interspersed  with  comments,  facts  and  explana- 
tions from  Mr.  Flower's  pen.  It  is  an  uncommonly  expressive  delineation,  and  done 
with  a  fidelity  of  color  which  keenly  tells  in  the  impressions  conveyed  to  the  reader's 
mind. 


Boston,  Mass. 


Daily  Advertiser. 


Dailv  Traveler. 


Boston  Ideas. 


Cincinnati,  O. 

Daily  Commer- 
cial Gazette. 

Chicago,  111. 


Daily 
Inter-Ocean. 


NewYork,N.Y. 

New  York  World. 


Mr.  Massey  has  received  appreciation  from  high  sources  for  his  masterly  poetic  power, 
but  Mr.  Flower's  book  aims  chiefly  at  bringing  forth  before  the  public  the  man's  charac- 
ter as  a  power  among' the  modern  reform  elements  which  rank  in  the  lists  of  the  broadly 
fearless  and  true.  Mr.  Flower  handles  the  subject  admirably,  and  we  thus  gain  the  full 
force  of  the  exquisite  beauty,  the  invincible  strength  and  the  lofty  truth  of,  Mr.  Massey's 
clear  vision  and  straightforward  expressiveness.  This  volume  will  find  a  high  niche  among 
the  elect.  It  is  handsomely  and  expensively  printed. — Boston  Ideas. 

A  WORK  AT  ONCE  BEAUTIFUL  IN  COMPOSITION  AND  FAULTLESS  IN  MECHANICAL  EXE- 
CUTION. "Gerald  Massey:  Poet,  Prophet  and  Mystic,"  is  the  title  Mr.  B.  O  Flower 
gives  to  a  beautiful  discussion  of  the  life  work  of  "  One  of  England's  Poets  of  the  People." 
The  volume  in  its  mechanical  execution  is  a  work  of  art.  .  .  .  The  author  illustrates 
the  three  phases  of  Massey's  mental  and  moral  nature,  as  poet,  prophet  and  mystic.  It 
is  a  charming  book,  written  in  a  sympathetic  spirit,  in  which  the  subject  is  appropriately 
called  upon  to  reveal  his  own  character  by  his  poems.  It  contains  several  elegant  illus- 
trations by  Laura  Lee. — Commercial  Gazette,  Cincinnati,  O. 

A     HANDSOME   VOLUME    DEALING    WITH    AN     INTERESTING    SUBJECT.       A    handsome 

•volume,  both  in  print  and  illustrations,  which  presents  briefly,  but  pointedly  the  life  and 
work  of  Gerald  Massey.  Our  author  finds  a  striking  resemblance  between  Massey  and 
our  own  loved  Quaker  poet,  Whittier.  Both  were  tireless  reformers,  "  passionately  in 
love  with  the  beauty  in  common  life."  Both  hated  injustice  with  all  their  powers  of 
mind,  with  prophetic  and  intuitive  insight  as  to  coming  events.  They  both  "  revealed 
beauties  within  and  without  the  homes  of  the  humble,"  and  were  fearless  in  denunciation 
of  wrong  doing.  The  work  is  handsomely  illustrated,  but  the  text  alone  makes  it  an 
interesting  and  even  charming  book.  Mr.  Flower  makes  free  quotations  from  the  gems 
of  many  of  Massey's  inspiring  songs,  and  briugs  out  admirably  the  leading  traits  of 
character  that  shaped  his  life  and  inspired  his  writing. — Daily  Inter-Ocean,  Chicago. 

Gerald  Massey  will  be  better  known  to  the  English-speaking  people  fifty  years  from 
now  than  he  is  to-day.  His  genius  is  only  just  beginning  to  be  recognized,  and  Mr.  B. 
O.  Flower  has  done  the  world  a  service  in  his  critical  monograph,  "  Gerald  Massey :  Poet, 
Prophet  and  Mystic."  It  is  a  tribute  from  the  heart  to  a  true  prophet  of  freedom,  frater- 
nity and  justice,  ever  loyal  to-the  interest  of  the  oppressed. — New  York  World. 


The  above  are  a  few  of  the  many  appreciative  criticisms  which  have  greeted  Mr.  Flower's  latest  volume.  This 
w6rk  is  one  that  is  needed  at  the  present  time,  as  it  makes  a  powerful  plea  for  justice,  while  it  presents  the  storvof 
Massey's  life  and  the  ideas  which' have  dominated  his  brain.  In  mechanical  execution  this  work  which  is  printed 
in  black  and  red,  on  heavy  antique  paper,  illustrated  with  a  few  choice  pictures,  drawn  by  Miss  Laura  LeeT^H 
talented  Boston  artist,  is  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  the  modem  revival  of  fine  book-making.  It  is  bound  in 
ornamental  cloth,  stamped  in  gold,  and  is  a  model  of  beauty  as  well  as  a  volume  of  excellence. 

It  makes  a  charming  presentation  volume. 

ARENA  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  Copley  Square,  Boston. 


if- 


A  POET  OP  THE  PEOPLE, 
i. 

IN  the  present  paper  I  wish  to  give  a  brief  outline  of  the  life 
and  work  of  the  poet,  composer,  and  singer,  James  G.  Clark, 
whose  fine  lyrical  and  reformative  verses  have  been  an  inspira- 
tion to  thousands  of  lives. 

Mr.  Clark  was  born  in  Constantia,  N.  Y.,  in  1830.  His 
father  was  a  man  of  influence  in  his  community,  being  recognized 
as  intelligent  and  honorable,  and  possessing  that  cool,  dispassion- 
ate judgment  which  always  commands  respect.  The  mother  gave 
to  her  son  his  poetical  gift  and  his  intense  love  for  humanity, 
his  all-absorbing  devotion  to  justice  and  liberty,  and  a  nature  at 
once  refined  yet  brave.  When  but  three  years  old,  the  little 
poet  had  learned  from  his  mother  "  The  Star  of  Bethlehem," 
sung  to  the  air  of  "  Bonny  Doon,"  and  could  sing  the  entire  piece 
without  missing  a  word  or  note.  When  twenty-one  years  of  age 
he  was  well  known  in  his  community  as  a  concert  singer  of  rare 
ability.  At  this  time  Mr.  Clark  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr. 
Ossian  E.  Dodge,  who,  in  addition  to  publishing  a  literary  jour- 
nal in  Boston,  had  under  his  management  the  most  popular  con- 
cert quartette  in  New  England.  Mr.  Dodge  was  a  man  of  quick 
perception  ;  he  readily  saw  that  the  young  poet  and  singer  would 
prove  a  valuable  acquisition  to  his  already  famous  troupe,  and 
promptly  appointed  him  musical  composer  for  his  company. 
Into  this  work  Mr.  Clark  threw  all  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  com- 
posing such  universally  popular  songs  as  "  The  Old  Mountain 
Tree,"  "  The  Rover's  Grave,"  "  Meet  Me  by  the  Running  Brook," 
and  "  The  Rock  of  Liberty."  "  The  Old  Mountain  Tree  "  was 
for  some  time  a  reigning  favorite  through  the  land,  it  being  sung 
for  months  in  theatres  and  concerts.  At  the  Boston  Museum, 
then  the  leading  theatre  of  Boston,  it  was  no  unusual  thing  for 
it  to  be  called  for  as  many  as  three  times  in  a  single  evening. 

One  day  during  this  period  of  popularity,  his  mother,  who  was  a 
very  religious  woman,  said  to  him,  "  James,  why  cannot  you 
write  a  hymn  ?  "  He  loved  his  mother  devotedly.  There  was 
between  them  more  than  the  strong  ties  of  mother  and  son.  .  She 
had  fostered  and  encouraged  his^every  poetical  and  musical  aspi- 
ration, and  it  was  his  most  earnest  desire  to  gratify  her  wish-  but 

i 


thought  along  this  line  came  slowly,  and  almost  a  year  elapsed 
before  the  young  man  placed  a  pencilled  copy  of  his  hymn, 
"  The  Evergreen  Mountains  of  Life,"  in  his  mother's  hand.  She 
read  it  through  silently,  too  much  overcome  to  speak,  while  great 
tears  coursed  down  her  wrinkled  cheeks.  At  this  period  he 
composed  several  songs  and  hymns  which  have  been  univer- 
sally popular,  such  as  "  Where  the  Roses  Never  Wither," 
«  The  Beautiful  Hills,"  and  «  The  Isles  of  the  By  and  By."  Of 
these  poems  Dr.  A.  P.  Miller  of  San  Francisco,  himself  a  poet 
of  more  than  ordinary  power  and  an  admirable  critic,  writes  : 
"  These  songs  have  for  thirty  years  been  received  by  all  classes 
as  forming  a  group  of  original  and  perfect  lyrics  adapted  to  every 
platform  and  hall,  whether  sacred  or  secular.  To  say  this," 
continues  Dr.  Miller,  "  detracts  nothing  from  his  songs  of  love 
and  freedom.  It  is  only  saying  that  they  are  the  St.  Elias,  the 
Tacoma,  the  Hood,  and  the  Shasta,  which  out- tower  all  other 
song  peaks  and  reach  those  heights  where  the  sunshine  is  eternal 
and  the  view  universal." 

It  may  be  well  to  note  at  this  time  the  singular  fact  that  in  his 
poetical  life  Mr.  Clark  has  appeared  in  three  distinct  roles,  although 
he  has  always  been  the  poet  of  the  people.  During  his  youth 
and  early  manhood  the  popular  lyric  and  ballad  claimed  his 
power.  It  was  the  work  of  this  period  which  won  for  him  the 
name  of  the  Tom  Moore  of  America ;  and  had  he  not  taken  the 
other  upward  steps,  the  appellation  would  not  have  been  so  pal- 
pably inadequate  to  describe  the  man  who  for  thirty  years  has 
been  the  poet  of  reform  and  the  prophet  of  the  new  day.  W^hen 
the  sixties  dawned,  the  first  song  epoch  of  his  life  was  drawing 
to  a  close,  and  the  mutterings  of  the  Rebellion  were  oppressing 
age  and  stimulating  youth  throughout  the  North.  Mr.  Clark 
had  given  his  country  a  collection  of  songs  and  ballads  destined 
to  live  long  after  his  body  had  returned  to  dust,  and  he  had  sung 
his  melody  into  the  hearts  of  thousands  who  had  listened  to  the 
poet  composer  and  singer  with  that  rapt  attention  which  is  the 
tribute  of  manhood  and  womanhood  to  genuine  merit.  The 
clouds  of  rebellion  were  gathering  around  the  horizon  ;  but  ere 
the  shock  of  arms  thrilled  the  nation,  Mr.  Clark  was  summoned 
to  the  death  bed  of  his  mother.  Sitting  at  her  side  as  the  spirit 
was  poising  for  flight,  and  catching  inspiration  from  her  words, 
there  came  to  him  that  exceedingly  popular  and  touching  poem, 
"  Leona,"  which  was  first  published  in  the  Home  Journal  of 
New  York,  then  edited  by  George  Morris  and  N.  P.  Willis. 
This  poem,  Mr.  Morris  afterwards  declared,  had  been  more 
widely  copied,  admired,  and  committed  to  memory  than  any  other 
composition  of  its  class  ever  published  in  America.  As  "  Leona  " 
affords  an  admirable  illustration  of  Mr.  Clark's  work  at  this  time, 


and  because  it  belongs  to  a  class  of  poems  always  treasured  by 
the  people,  I  will  give  several  stanzas.* 

Leona,  the  hour  draws  nigh  — 

The  hour  we've  awaited  so  long, 
For  the  angel  to  open  a  door  through  the  sky, 
That  my  spirit  may  break  through  its  prison  and  try 

Its  voice  in  an  infinite  song. 

Just  now,  as  the  slumbers  of  night 

Came  o'er  me  with  peace-giving  breath, 
The  curtain,  half  lifted,  revealed  to  my  sight 
Those  windows  which  look  on  the  kingdom  of  light 

That  borders  the  River  of  Death. 

And  a  vision  fell  solemn  and  sweet, 

Bringing  gleams  of  a  morning-lit  land; 
I  saw  the  white  shore  which  the  pale  waters  beat, 
And  I  heard  the  low  lull  as  they  broke  at  their  feet 

Who  walk  on  the  beautiful  strand. 

And  I  wondered  why  spirits  should  cling 

To  their  clay  with  a  struggle  and  sigh, 
When  life's  purple  autumn  is  better  than  spring, 
And  the  soul  flies  away  like  a  sparrow,  to  sing 

In  a  climate  where  leaves  never  die. 

Leona,  come  close  to  my  bed, 

And  lay  your  dear  hand  on  my  brow; 
The  same  touch  thrilled  me  in  days  that  are  fled, 
And  raised  the  lost  roses  of  youth  from  the  dead, 

Can  brighten  the  brief  moments  now. 

We  have  loved  from  the  cold  world  apart; 

And  your  trust  was  too  generous  and  true 
For  their  hate  to  o'erthrow;  when  the  slanderer's  dart 
Was  rankling  deep  in  my  desolate  heart, 

I  was  dearer  than  ever  to  you. 

I  thank  the  Great  Father  for  this, 

That  our  love  is  not  lavished  in  vain; 
Each  germ,  in  the  future,  will  blossom  to  bliss, 
And  the  forms  that  we  love,  and  the  lips  that  we  kiss, 

Never  shrink  at  the  shadow  of  pain. 

By  the  light  of  this  faith  am  I  taught 

That  death  is  but  action  begun; 

In  the  strength  of  this  hope  I  have  struggled  and  fought 
With  the  legions  of  wrong,  till  my  armor  has  caught 

The  gleam  of  Eternity's  sun. 

Leona,  look  forth  and  behold : 

From  headland,  from  hillside,  and  deep, 
The  day  king  surrenders  his  banners  of  gold; 
The  twilight  advances  through  woodland  and  wold, 

And  the  dews  are  beginning  to  weep. 

*  The  selection  from  "Leona,"  "  Fremont's  Battle  Hymn,"  and  "  The  Voice  of  the 
People,"  as  well  as  the  poems  "  Minnie  Minturn  "  and  "  The  Infinite  Mother,"  are  from 
Mr.  Clark's  volume  "  Poetry  and  Song."  Published  by  D.  Lothrop  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass. 


The  moon's  silver  hair  lies  uncurled, 
Down  the  broad-breasted  mountains  away ; 
Ere  sunset's  red  glories  again  shall  be  furled 
On  the  walls  of  the  west,  o'er  the  plains  of  the  world, 
I  shall  rise  in  a  limitless  day. 

Oh,  come  not  in  tears  to  my  tomb, 
Nor  plant  with  frail  flowers  the  sod ; 
There  is  rest  among  roses  too  sweet  for  its  gloom, 
And  life  where  the  lilies  eternally  bloom, 

In  the  balm-breathing  gardens  of  God. 


II. 

The  divine  afflatus  which  fills  the  poet  brain,  and  weaves  itself 
into  words  which  thrill  and  move  the  profound  depths  of  human 
emotions,  was  next  manifested  in  Mr.  Clark's  soul-awakening 
songs  of  freedom.  The  sweet  ballads  and  lyrics  of  love  and 
home  disappeared  before  stern  Duty's  voice.  While  Whittier, 
Longfellow,  and  Lowell  were  tiring  the  heart  of  New  England, 
Mr.  Clark  sent  forth  "  Fremont's  Battle  Hymn,"  one  of  the  most 
noteworthy  poems  of  war-times,  and  a  song  which  produced  great 
enthusiasm  wherever  sung.  Some  idea  of  the  influence  which 
these  stirring  lines  produced  on  an  already  awakened  conscience 
may  be  imagined  by  perusal  of  the  following  lines  :  — 

Oh,  spirits  of  Washington,  Warren,  and  Wayne! 

Oh,  shades  of  the  heroes  and  patriots  slain! 

Come  down  from  your  mountains  of  emerald  and  gold, 

And  smile  on  the  banner  ye  cherished  of  old; 

Descend  in  your  glorified  ranks  to  the  strife, 

Like  legions  sent  forth  from  the  armies  of  life; 

Let  us  feel  your  deep  presence  as  waves  feel  the  breeze 

When  white  fleets  like  snowflakes  are  drowned  in  the  seas. 

As  the  red  lightnings  run  on  the  black,  jagged  cloud, 
Ere  the  thunder-king  speaks  from  his  wind-woven  shroud, 
So  gleams  the  bright  steel  along  valley  and  shore, 
Ere  the  conflict  shall  startle  the  land  with  its  roar; 
As  the  veil  which  conceals  the  clear  starlight  is  riven 
When  clouds  strike  together,  by  warring  winds  driven, 
So  the  blood  of  the  race  must  be  offered  like  rain, 
Ere  the  stars  of  our  country  are  ransomed  again. 

The  hounds  of  Oppression  were  howling  the  knell 

Of  martyrs  and  prophets  at  gibbet  and  cell, 

While  Mercy  despaired  of  the  blossoming  years 

When  her  harpstrings  no  more  shall  be  rusted  with  tears; 

But  God  never  ceases  to  strike  for  the  right, 

And  the  ring  of  his  anvil  came  down  through  the  night, 

Though  the  world  was  asleep  and  the  Nation  seemed  dead, 

And  Truth  into  bondage  by  Error  was  led. 


Will  the  banners  of  morn  at  your  bidding  be  furled, 
When  the  day-king  arises  to  quicken  the  world  ? 
Can  ye  cool  the  fierce  fires  of  his  heat-throbbing  breast, 
Or  turn  him  aside  from  his  goal  in  the  west? 
Ah!  sons  of  the  plains  where  the  orange  tree  blooms, 
Ye  may  come  to  our  pine-covered  mountains  for  tombs, 
But  the  light  ye  would  smother  was  kindled  by  One 
Who  gave  to  the  universe  planet  and  sun. 

There  is  present  in  this  poem  much  of  the  fire  of  the  old 
prophets  of  Israel,  blended  with  that  lofty  faith  in  the  power  and 
favor  of  God  which  gave  peculiar  force  to  many  of  the  most 
striking  of  Whittier's  anti-slavery  verses. 

During  the  early  days  of  the  war  the  poet  travelled  from  town 
to  town,  singing  the  spirit  of  freedom  into  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  and  arousing  to  action  scores  and  hundreds  of  persons  in 
every  community  visited,  who  had  heretofore  taken  little  interest 
in  the  pending  struggle.  In  this  way  he  raised  many  thousands 
of  dollars  for  the  Sanitary  Commission  and  Soldiers'  Aid  societies. 
In  addition  to  "  Fremont's  Battle  Hymn,"  this  period  called  from 
his  pen  a  number  of  war  songs  and  poems,  such  as  "  Let  Me  Die 
with  My  Face  to  the  Foe,"  "When  You  and  I  Were  Soldier 
Boj^s,"  "The  Children  of  the  Battle-field,"  and  "Minnie  Minturn." 
The  history  of  this  last-mentioned  poem  is  peculiarly  interesting, 
and  reveals  the  fact  that  at  times  coming  events  have  been 
flashed  with  singular  vividness  on  the  sensitive  mind  of  our  poet. 
The  pathetic  facts  connected  with  the  poem  are  as  follows :  Mr. 
Clark  was  visiting  a  family  by  the  name  of  Minturn.  In  the 
home  circle  was  a  young  lady  named  Maria,  who  had  a  lover  in 
the  army.  One  day  Mr.  Clark  said,  "  If  your  name  were  Minnie, 
it  would  make  a  musical  combination  for  a  poem."  The  young 
lady  blushed  and  replied  that  her  friends  often  called  her  Minnie, 
and  doubtless  at  this  moment  her  thoughts  went  out  to  the  soldier 
boy  for  whom  she  daily  prayed.  Some  months  passed,  when  one 
night,  while  the  poet  was  riding  in  a  sleeping- car,  the  words  of  the 
ballad  "Minnie  Minturn"  forced  themselves  upon  his  brain,  so 
haunting  his  mind  that  he  could  get  no  sleep  until  he  had  trans- 
ferred them  to  paper.  This  was  done  by  drawing  aside  the 
curtain  of  his  berth,  and  writing  in  the  faint  glimmer  of  the  lamps, 
which  had  been  turned  low  for  the  night.  It  is  probable  that  the 
poet  did  not  dream,  as  he  pencilled  the  following  lines,  that  he 
was  writing  a  prophecy  which  a  year  later  was  to  become  his- 
tory. Yet  such  was  in  fact  the  case. 

Minnie  Minturn,  in  the  shadow 

I  have  waited  here  alone,  — 

On  the  battle's  gory  meadow, 

Which  the  scythe  of  death  has  mown, 

I  have  listened  for  your  coming, 

Till  the  dreary  dawn  of  day, 


But  I  only  hear  the  drumming, 
As  the  armies  march  away. 

0  Minnie,  dear  Minnie, 

1  have  heard  the  angel's  warning, 
I  have  seen  the  golden  shore ; 

I  will  meet  you  in  the  morning 
Where  the  shadows  come  no  more." 

III. 

We  come  now  to  the  third  epoch  in  the  history  of  Mr.  Clark's 
poetry.  The  war  was  over.  His  thoughts  turned  to  the  toiling 
millions  of  our  land,  for  from  early  manhood  his  heart  had 
ever  kept  rhythmic  pace  with  the  hopes,  aspirations,  and  sorrows 
of  the  masses.  Now,  however,  the  ballad  singer  who  in  the 
nation's  crisis  became  the  poet  reformer,  becomes  the  prophet 
poet  of  the  dawning  day.  And  with  advancing  years  came  added 
power;  for  it  is  a  notable  fact  that  with  the  silver  of  age  has  come 
a  depth  of  thought,  coupled  with  strength  and  finish  in  style  not 
found  in  his  earlier  work.  Take,  for  example,  the  following- 
stanzas  from  "  A  Vision  of  the  Old  and  New." 

'Twas  in  the  slumber  of  the  night  — 

That  solemn  time,  that  mystic  state  — 
When,  from  its  loftiest  signal  height, 

My  soul  o'erlooked  the  realm  of  Fate, 
And  read  the  writing  on  the  wall, 

That  prophesies  of  things  to  be, 
And  heard  strange  voices  rise  and  fall 

Like  murmurs  from  a  distant  sea. 

The  world  below  me  throbbed  and  rolled 

In  all  its  glory,  pride,  and  shame, 
Its  lust  for  power,  its  greed  for  gold, 

Its  flitting  lights  that  man  calls  fame, — 
And  from  their  long  and  deep  repose, 

In  memory  and  page  sublime, 
The  ancient  races  round  me  rose 

Like  phantoms  from  the  tombs  of  Time. 

I  saw  the  Alpine  torrents  press 

To  Tiber  with  their  snow-white  foam, 
And  prowling  in  the  wilderness 

The  wolf  that  suckled  infant  Rome. 
But  wilder  than  the  mountain  flood 

That  plunged  upon  its  downward  way, 
And  fiercer  than  the  she-wolfs  brood, 

The  soul  of  man  went  forth  to  slay. 

Kingdoms  to  quick  existence  sprang, 

Each  thirsting  for  another's  gore, 
The  din  of  wars  incessant  rang, 

And  signs  of  hate  each  forehead  wore. 


All  nations  bore  the  mark  of  Cain, 
And  only  knew  the  law  of  might: 

They  lived  and  strove  for  selfish  gain 
And  perished  like  the  dreams  of  night. 

*#**### 

I  woke ;  and  slept,  and  dreamed  once  more,  — 

And  from  a  continent's  white  crest, 
I  heard  two  oceans  seethe  and  roar, 

Along  vast  lands  by  nature  blest: 
All  races  mingled  at  my  feet, 

With  noise  and  strange  confusion  rife, 
And  Old  World  projects  —  incomplete  — 

Seemed  maddened  with  a  new-found  life. 

The  thirst  for  human  blood  had  waned; 

But  boldly  seated  on  the  throne, 
The  grasping  god  of  Mammon  reigned, 

And  claimed  Earth's  product  for  his  own. 
He  gathered  all  that  toilers  made, 

To  fill  his  vaults  with  wealth  untold. 
The  sunlight,  water,  air,  and  shade 

Paid  tribute  to  his  greed  for  gold. 

He  humbly  paid  his  vows  to  God, 

While  agents  gathered  rents  and  dues. 
He  ruled  the  nation  with  a  nod, 

And  bribed  the  pulpit  with  the  pews ; 
Yet,  over  all  the  regal  form 

Of  Freedom  towered,  unseen  by  him, 
And  eagles  poised  above  the  storm 

That  draped  the  far  horizon's  rim. 
At  length,  the  distant  thunder  spoke 

In  deep  and  threatening  accents;  then 
The  long  roll  of  the  earthquake  woke 

From  sleep  a  hundred  million  men. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  # 

I  woke:  and  slept  and  dreamed  again: 

A  softened  glory  filled  the  air, 
The  morning  flooded  land  and  main, 

And  Peace  was  brooding  everywhere ; 
From  sea  to  sea  the  song  was  known 

That  only  God's  own  children  know, 
Whose  notes,  by  angel  voices  sown, 

Took  root  two  thousand  years  ago. 

No  more  the  wandering  feet  had  need 

Of  priestly  guides  to  Paradise, 
And  banished  was  the  iron  creed 

That  measured  God  by  man's  devise; 
No  more  the  high  cathedral  dome 

Was  reared  to  tell  His  honors  by, 
For  Christ  was  throned  in  every  home, 

And  shone  from  every  human  eye. 

No  longer  did  the  beast  control 

And  make  the  spirit  desolate; 
No  more  the  poor  man's  struggling  soul 

Sank  down  before  the  wheel  of  Fate : 


And  pestilence  could  not  draw  near, 

Nor  war  and  crime  be  felt  or  seen  — 
As  flames,  that  lap  the  withered  spear, 

Expire  before  the  living  green. 

And  all  of  this  shall  come  to  pass  — 

For  God  is  Love,  and  Love  shall  reign, 
Though  nations  first  dissolve  like  grass 

Before  the  fire  that  sweeps  the  plain; 
And  men  shall  cease  to  lift  their  gaze 

To  seek  Him  in  the  far-off  blue, 
But  live  the  Truth  their  lips  now  praise 

And  in  their  lives  His  life  renew. 

This  poem  was  founded  on  a  vivid  dream  which  came  to  the 
poet  and  so  impressed  him  that  he  found  no  peace  until  he  com- 
mitted the  verses  to  paper.  In  the  following  stanzas  from  the 
"  Voice  of  the  People  "  we  also  find  the  clear  note  of  the  prophet. 

Swing  inward,  O  gates  of  the  future ! 

Swing  outward,  ye  doors  of  the  past! 
For  the  soul  of  the  people  is  moving 
.  And  rising  from  slumber  at  last ; 
The  black  forms  of  night  are  retreating, 

The  white  peaks  have  signalled  the  day, 
And  Freedom  her  long  roll  is  beating, 

And  calling  her  sons  to  the  fray. 

And  woe  to  the  rule  that  has  plundered 

And  trod  down  the  wounded  and  slain, 
While  the  wars  of  the  Old  Time  have  thundered, 

And  men  poured  their  life-tide  in  vain; 
The  day  of  its  triumph  is  ending, 

The  evening  draws  near  with  its  doom, 
And  the  star  of  its  strength  is  descending, 

To  sleep  in  dishonor  and  gloom. 

The  soil  tells  the  same  fruitful  story, 

The  seasons  their  bounties  display, 
And  the  flowers  lift  their  faces  in  glory 

To  catch  the  warm  kisses  of  day;    . 
While  our  fellows  are  treated  as  cattle 

That  are  muzzled  when  treading  the  corn, 
And  millions  sink  down  in  life's  battle 

With  a  sigh  for  the  day  they  were  born. 

Ah,  woe  to  the  robbers  who  gather 

In  fields  where  they  never  have  sown, 
Who  have  stolen  the  jewels  from  labor 

And  builded  to  Mammon  a  throne ; 
For  the  snow-king,  asleep  by  the  fountains, 

Shall  wake  in  the  summer's  hot  breath, 
And  descend  in  his  rage  from  the  mountains, 

Bearing  terror,  destruction,  and  death. 

For  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  hath  said  it, 

Whose  lips  never  uttered  a  lie, 
And  his  prophets  and  poets  have  read  it 

In  symbols  of  earth  and  of  sky: 


That  to  him  who  has  revelled  in  plunder 

Till  the  angel  of  conscience  is  dumb, 
The  shock  of  the  earthquake  and  thunder 

And  tempest  and  torrent  shall  come. 

Swing  inward,  O  gates  of  the  future! 

Swing  outward,  ye  doors  of  the  past! 
A  giant  is  waking  from  slumber 

And  rending  his  fetters  at  last; 
From  the  dust  where  his  proud  tyrants  found  him, 

Unhonored  and  scorned  and  betrayed, 
He  shall  rise  with  the  sunlight  around  him, 

And  rule  in  the  realm  he  has  made. 

The  poet's  loyalty  to  the  toilers  is  voiced  in  most  of  his  latest 
poems  and  songs.  "  The  People's  Battle  Hymn,"  *  published  last 
autumn,  was  sung  with  great  effect  at  the  industrial  gatherings 
throughout  the  West.  Of  this  song  General  J.  B.  Weaver,  the 
candidate  of  the  People's  Party  for  president  in  1892,  said:  "It 
is  the  song  we  have  been  waiting  for.  It  is  an  Iliad  of  itself." 

The  following  stanzas  from  this  song  will  give  an  idea  of  the 
exaltation  of  thought  which,  when  accompanied  by  Mr.  Clark's 
soul-stirring  music,  arouses  an  almost  indescribable  enthusiam 
among  the  people  wherever  it  is  sung :  — 

There's  a  sound  of  swelling  waters,  there's  a  voice  from  out  the  blue, 

Where  the  Master  his  arm  is  revealing, — 
Lo !  the  glory  of  the  morning  lights  the  forehead  of  the  New, 

And  the  towers  of  the  Old  Time  are  reeling. 

CHORUS. 

Lift  high  the  banner,  break  from  the  chain, 

Wake  from  the  thraldom  of  story; 
Like  the  torrent  to  the  river,  the  river  to  the  main, 

Forward  to  liberty  and  glory ! 

There  is  tramping  in  the  cities  where  the  people  march  along, 

And  the  trumpet  of  Justice  is  calling; 
There's  a  crashing  of  the  helmet  on  the  forehead  of  the  Wrong, 

And  the  battlements  of  Babylon  are  falling. 

He  shall  gather  in  the  homeless,  he  shall  set  the  people  free, 

He  shall  walk  hand  in  hand  with  the  toiler,  — 
H«  shall  render  back  to  labor,  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea, 

The  lands  that  are  bound  by  the  spoiler. 

There  is  doubt  within  the  temples  where  the  gods  are  bought  and  sold, 

They  are  leaving  the  false  for  the  true  way; 
There's  a  cry  of  consternation  where  the  idols  made  of  gold 

Are  melting  in  the  glance  of  the  New  Day. 

O !  the  Master  of  the  morning,  how  we  waited  for  his  light 
In  the  old  days  of  doubting  and  fearing! 

"The  People's  Battle  Hymn."  Words  and  music  by  J.  G.  Clark.  Published  by 
Oliver  Ditson  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass. 


10 

How  we  watched  among  the  shadows  of  the  long  and  weary  night 
For  his  feet  upon  the  mountains  appearing. 

Let  the  lightning  tell  the  story  to  the  sea's  remotest  bands, 

Let  the  campfires  of  Freedom  be  flaming; 
While  the  voices  of  the  heavens  join  the  chorus  of  the  land, 

Which  the  children  of  men  are  proclaiming. 

In  another  recent  poem,  entitled  "  A  Song  for  the  Period,"  we 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  deep  sympathy  ever  felt  by  this  poet  for 
the  people.  I  have  only  space  for  two  stanzas. 

I  cannot  join  with  the  old-time  friends 

In  their  merry  games  and  sports 
While  the  pleading  wail  of  the  poor  ascends 

To  the  Judge  of  the  Upper  Courts ; 
And  I  cannot  sing  the  glad,  free  songs 

That  the  world  around  me  sings, 
While  my  fellows  move  in  cringing  throngs 

At  the  beck  of  the  gilded  kings. 

The  scales  hang  low  from  the  open  skies, — 

That  have  weighed  them,  one  and  all, — 
And  the  fiery  letters  gleam  and  rise 

O'er  the  feast  in  the  palace  hall; 
But  my  lighter  lays  shall  slumber  on 

The  boughs  of  the  willow  tree 
Till  the  king  is  slain  in  Babylon, 

And  the  captive  hosts  go  free. 

Mr.  Clark  was  married  early  in  life  to  a  lady  of  his  native 
home.  Three  children  came  to  bless  this  union.  One,  however, 
was  recalled  by  the  infinite  Father.  In  memory  of  this  child  the 
stricken  father  composed  a  touching  little  gem  entitled  "  Beauti- 
ful Annie." 

Mr.  Clark  is  not  only  a  poet,  musical  composer,  and  singer  of 
rare  ability,  he  is  a  scholarly  essayist,  and,  during  recent  years,  has 
contributed  many  papers  of  power  and  literary  value  to  the  lead- 
ing dailies  of  the  Pacific  coast.  A  fair  specimen  of  his  work  in 
this  line  will  be  found  in  the  following  criticism  on  Robert  Burns, 
which  I  take  from  a  recent  contribution  to  one  of  the  most  influ- 
ential dailies  in  Southern  California.  In  speaking  of  Robert 
Burns,  Mr.  Clark  says  :  — 

True,  he  was  not  compelled  to  affect  the  peculiar  dialect  in  which 
was  written  his  most  characteristic  and  enduring  verse,  because  it  was 
the  dialect  in  which  he  was  born  and  reared ;  but,  nevertheless,  in  and 
through  it  he  has  made  not  only  all  Scotland  love  him  as  no  other  poet 
is  loved  to-day,  but  he  won  the  homage  of  lovers  of  humanity,  democ- 
racy, and  religious  freedom  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken 

It  was  through  his  songs  and  poems,  written  in  the  homely  Scotch 
dialect  of  his  times,  that  the  common  Scotch  people  became  a  nation  of 
poets.  It  was  through  Burns,  who  found  poetry  in  the  most  common 
and  lowly  objects,  —  even  the  little  "mouse,"  whose  nest  had  been 


11 

wrecked  by  the  poet's  plow,  —  that  the  most  unlettered  Scotchman  dis- 
covered the  poetry  lying  latent  in  his  own  heart  and  mind ;  and  at  a  period 
when  "poetic  art,"  so  called,  was  claimed  as  the  exclusive  inheritance 
of  the  self-elected  and  cultured  few,  he  restored  to  the  uneducated 
peasant  and  cotter  his  lawful  birthright. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  estimating  the  extent  to  which  the  better 
and  higher  qualities  of  Scotch  character  have  been  quickened,  developed, 
and  refined  through  the  lyrics  of  Robert  Burns,  more  especially  those 
lyrics  that  appeal  directly  to  the  hearts  and  every-day  lif e  of  his  country- 
men. This  is  why  the  true  Scotchman,  while  admiring  Scott,  loves  and 
worships  Burns. 

The  wealth  of  poetic  imagery,  strength,  and  deep  penetration 
which  characterizes  the  recent  work  of  Mr.  Clark  is  very  notice- 
able in  some  of  his  later  poems,  and  reaches  altitudes  of  sublimity 
in  thought  rare  among  modern  poets.  This  characteristic  is  well 
illustrated  in  "  The  Infinite  Mother,"  which  I  give  below.  It  is 
considered  by  many  critics  as  Mr.  Clark's  masterpiece. 

THE    INFINITE   MOTHEK. 

I  am  mother  of  Life  and  companion  of  God! 

I  move  in  each  mote  from  the  suns  to  the  sod, 

I  brood  in  all  darkness,  I  gleam  in  all  light, 

I  fathom  all  depth,  and  I  crown  every  hight; 

Within  me  the  globes  of  the  universe  roll, 

And  through  me  all  matter  takes  impress  and  soul. 

Without  me  all  forms  into  chaos  would  fall ; 

I  was  under,  within,  and  around,  over  all, 

Ere  the  stars  of  the  morning  in  harmony  sung, 

Or  the  systems  and  suns  from  their  grand  arches  swung. 

I  loved  you,  O  earth !  in  those  cycles  profound, 

When  darkness  unbroken  encircled  you  round, 

And  the  fruit  of  creation,  the  race  of  mankind, 

Was  only  a  dream  in  the  Infinite  Mind ; 

I  nursed  you,  O  earth !  ere  your  oceans  were  born, 

Or  your  mountains  rejoiced  in  the  gladness  of  morn, 

When  naked  and  helpless  you  came  from  the  womb, 

Ere  the  seasons  had  decked  you  with  verdure  and  bloom, 

And  all  that  appeared  of  your  form  or  your  face 

Was  a  bare,  lurid  ball  in  the  vast  wilds  of  space. 

When  your  bosom  was  shaken  and  rent  with  alarms 
I  calmed  and  caressed  you  to  sleep  in  my  arms. 
I  sung  o'er  your  pillow  the  song  of  the  spheres 
Till  the  hum  of  its  melody  softened  your  fears, 
And  the  hot  flames  of  passion  burned  low  in  your  breast 
As  you  lay  on  my  heart  like  a  maiden  at  rest; 
When  fevered,  I  cooled  you  with  mist  and  with  shower, 
And  kissed  you  with  cloudlet  and  rainbow  and  flower, 
f          Till  you  woke  in  the  heavens  arrayed  like  a  queen, 
In  garments  of  purple,  of  gold,  and  of  green, 
From  fabrics  of  glory  my  fingers  had  spun 
For  the  mother  of  nations  and  bride  of  the  sun. 


12 

There  was  love  in  your  face,  and  your  bosom  rose  fair, 
And  the  scent  of  your  lilies  made  fragrant  the  air, 
And  your  blush  in  the  glance  of  your  lover  was  rare 
As  you  waltzed  in  the  light  of  his  warm  yellow  hair, 
Or  lay  in  the  haze  of  his  tropical  noons, 
Or  slept  'neath  the  gaze  of  the  passionless  moons: 
And  I  stretched  out  my  arms  from  the  awful  unknown, 
Whose  channels  are  swept  by  my  rivers  alone, 
And  held  you  secure  in  your  young  mother  days, 
And  sung  to  your  offspring  their  lullaby  lays, 
While  races  and  nations  came  forth  from  your  breast, 
Lived,  struggled,  and  died,  and  returned  to  their  rest. 

All  creatures  conceived  at  the  Fountain  of  Cause 

Are  born  of  my  travail,  controlled  by  my  laws ; 

I  throb  in  their  veins  and  I  breathe  in  their  breath, 

Combine  them  for  effort,  disperse  them  in  death; 

No  form  is  too  great  or  minute  for  my  care, 

No  place  so  remote  but  my  presence  is  there. 

I  bend  in  the  grasses  that  whisper  of  spring, 

I  lean  o'er  the  spaces  to  hear  the  stars  sing, 

I  laugh  with  the  infant,  I  roar  with  the  sea, 

I  roll  in  the  thunder,  I  hum  with  the  bee ; 

From  the  centre  of  suns  to  the  flowers  of  the  sod 

I  am  shuttle  and  loom  in  the  purpose  of  God, 

The  ladder  of  action  all  spirit  must  climb 

To  the  clear  hights  of  Love  from  the  lowlands  of  Time. 

'Tis  mine  to  protect  you,  fair  bride  of  the  sun, 

Till  the  task  of  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  is  done ; 

Till  the  roses  that  crown  you  shall  wither  away, 

And  the  bloom  on  your  beautiful  cheek  shall  decay ; 

Till  the  soft  golden  locks  of  your  lover  turn  gray, 

And  palsy  shall  fall  on  the  pulses  of  Day ; 

Till  you  cease  to  give  birth  to  the  children  of  men, 

And  your  forms  are  absorbed  in  my  currents  again  — 

But  your  sons  and  your  daughters,  unconquered  by  strife, 

Shall  rise  on  my  pinions  and  bathe  in  my  life 

While  the  fierce  glowing  splendors  of  suns  cease  to  burn, 

And  bright  constellations  to  vapor  return, 

And  new  ones  shall  rise  from  the  graves  of  the  old, 

Shine,  fade,  and  dissolve  like  a  tale  that  is  told. 

Like  Victor^  Hugo,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  Robert  Browning, 
and,  indeed,  a* large  proportion  of  the  most  profoundly  spiritual 
natures  of  the  nineteenth  century,  Mr.  Clark,  while  deeply  relig- 
ious, is  unfettered  by  creeds  and  untrammelled  by  dogmas.  In 
bold  contrast  to  the  narrow-minded  religionists  who,  like  the 
Pharisees  of  Jesus'  time,  worship  the  letter,  which  kills,  and  who 
are  to-day  persecuting  men  for  conscience'  sake,  and  seeking  to 
unite  church  and  state,  Mr.  Clark's  whole  life  has  been  a  protept 
against  intolerance,  persecution,  and  bigotry.  Living  in  a  pureij 
spiritual  realm,  HE  LOVES,  and  that  renders  it  impossible  to  cher- 
ish the  spirit  of  bigotry  and  persecution  manifested  by  the  Ameri- 


13 

can  Sabbath  Union  and  other  persecuting  and  unchristian  bodies, 
whose  leaders  have  never  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  real  spirit  or 
character  of  Jesus.  He  is  a  follower  of  the  great  Nazarene  in 
the  truest  sense  of  the  word,  and  thus  cannot  understand  how 
professed  Christians  can  so  prostitute  religion  and  ignore  their 
Master's  injunctions  as  to  persecute  their  fellow-men  for  opin- 
ion's sake.  On  this  and  kindred  subjects  he  has  written  very 
thoughtfully  and  with  great  power. 

The  light  of  another  world  has  already  silvered  and  glorified 
the  brow  of  this  poet  of  the  dawn ;  and  as  I  have  before  observed, 
with  advancing  years  comes  intellectual  and  spiritual  strength 
rather  than  a  diminution  of  power.  Such  men  as  Mr.  Clark 
wield  a  subtle  influence  for  good  in  the  world.  Their  lives  and 
thoughts  are  alike  an  inspiration  to  thousands ;  their  names  live 
enshrined  in  the  love  of  the  earnest,  toiling,  struggling  people  — - 
the  nation's  real  nobility. 


AFTER  SIXTY  YEARS. 


The  snow  of  age  is  on  my  head, 
But  eternal  Spring  is  in  my  heart. 

—  Victor  Hugo. 

Of  the  many  who  enter  life  strong  and  enthusiastic  in  the 
cause  of  justice  and  humanity,  only  a  few  persevere  to  the 
end,  without  faltering,  if  that  end  be  deferred  until  the 
snows  of  age  crown  the  brow.  Some  centre  their  energies 
on  a  single  reform  and  battle  unceasingly  for  the  despised 
cause,  patiently  and  dauntlessly  braving  the  contumely  and 
persecution  of  conventionalism.  They  are  usually  very, 
finely  strung  natures;  indeed,  I  think  the  reformer  who  bat- 
tles for  the  weak  and  oppressed,  is  always  almost  super- 
sensitive;  hence,  the  abuse,  the  sneers  and  social  ostracism 
he  is  compelled  to  endure  for  the  weak,  ignorant,  and 
oppressed,  whose  cause  he  makes  his  own,  cut  into  his 
very  soul  in  a  manner  little  dreamed  of  by  the  careless 
masses.  At  length,  however,  the  reform  is  accomplished; 
the  minority  becomes  the  majority,  and  he  who  was 
yesterday  denounced  as  a  shallow  agitator,  an  insufferable 
crank,  and  a  hysterical  emotionalist  is  hailed  as  a  prophet, 
hero,  and  sage  by  that  same  soulless  and  shallow  conven- 
tionalism which  scorned  him  so  long  as  the  cause  for  which 
he  battled  was  unpopular. 

When  this  hour  arrives  it  carries  perils  with  it  for  the 
reformer;  it  is  now  so  easy  to  rest  on  well-earned  laurels 
and  enjoy  the  sweeter  melodies  of  life.  The  cause  is  won — 
nay,  not  the  cause,  but  one  battle  in  the  ceaseless  warfare 
by  which  man  rises  to  nobler  heights;  but  conventionalism 
will  have  it  that  the  cause  is  won,  and  often  the  reformer  at 
this  point  falls  by  the  wayside,  ceasing  to  be  a  reformer, 
although  he  may  continue  to  utter  high,  sweet,  and  noble 
thoughts.  The  poet  Whittier  is  an  example  of  this  class. 
After  the  war  the  despised  agitator  who  for  so  long  had 
suffered  social  ostracism,  was  welcomed  into  the  arms  of 
the  conventionalism  which  had  endeavored  to  slay  him. 
All  that  was  asked  of  him  was  that  he  would  rest  on  his 
laurels,  in  so  far  as  aggressive  reform  work  was  concerned, 
and  turn  his  muse  to  greener  and  more  restful  pastur/^. 
He  naturally  hated  conflict  and  loved  peace.  He  chose  tj 
velvet,  grass-lined  banks  and  rested  by  the  wayside,  while 
Wendell  Phillips  from  the  cause  of  the  oppressed  black 


15 

man  turned  to  that  of  the  enslaved  white  man  and  dealt 
giant  blows  for  freedom,  justice  and  progress  so  long  as 
his  silver-toned  voice  could  utter  a  protest  against  inhuman- 
ity, injustice  and  oppression. 

Another  class  of  reformers  becomes  discouraged  by  the 
ingratitude  and  ignorance  of  those  they  seek  to  aid.  They 
find  themselves  misjudged,  misrepresented  and  maligned 
by  the  demagogues  who,  influenced  by  the  capital  of  the 
oppressors  or  consumed  by  love  of  self  and  petty  jealousy, 
discredit  the  high,  pure  unselfishness  of  single-hearted  men 
and  women ;  and  the  latter  too  often,  after  being  made  the 
target  for  those  they  would  help,  become  discouraged  and 
lapse  into,  silence;  their  voices  like  the  powerful  guns  of 
a  battle  ship  are  stilled,  but  the  spiking  is  due  to  traitors  on 
board,  rather  than  to  the  fire  from  the  enemy. 

Still  another  class  who  enter  life  strong,  aggressive, 
brave,  and  determined  to  consecrate  their  best  energies 
to  the  cause  of  human  brotherhood,  gradually  fall  under 
the  spell  of  conventionalism;  the  multitudinous  disappoint- 
ments which  beset  their  pathway  slowly  dampen  the  ardor 
which  impelled  them  onward.  Hope,  courage  and  deter- 
mination give  way  to  a  painful  and  oppressive  pessimism. 
The  "  Locksley  Hall "  of  youth,  which  is  the  story  of 
strength,  hope  and  determination,  is  changed  into  the 
"Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After,"  which  is  a  tale  of 
despair.  This  is  the  saddest  of  all  sights,  save  that  of  open 
betrayal  or  treachery. 

In  broad  contrast  with  those  who  aggressively  enter  the 
warfare  for  eternal  justice  and  human  brotherhood,  but 
who  becoming  tired,  disheartened,  or  asphyxiated  fall  by 
the  wayside,  wre  find  a  fewr — a  chosen  band  of  lofty  spirits — 
who  persevere  in  the  cause  until  the  night  comes  upon  them, 
and  they  fall  with  their  armor  on,  like  Victor  Hugo,  who 
was  a  conspicuous  representative  of  this  order  of  nature's 
royalty.  They  can  exclaim,  "The  winter  is  on  our  heads, 
but  eternal  spring  is  in  our  hearts."  They  are  prophets — 
they  are  more  than  prophets,  for  the  prophet  may  only 
discern  the  signs  of  the  times  and  point  out  the  luminous 
truth  he  beholds.  They  are  warriors — they  are  more  than 
warriors,  for  a  wrarrior  may  fight  for  self  or  in  an  evil  cause. 
They  are  heroes — they  are  more  than  heroes,  for  the  hero 
may  win  glorious  victories  but  afterward  rest  on  his  laurels 
mid  the  plaudits  of  an  admiring  world.  They  are  the  ser- 
ants  of  progress,  the  apostles  of  light,  who  think  only  of 
serving  the  race,  shedding  forth  the  light  of  justice,  dis- 
pelling the  darkness,  and  enabling  the  race  to  move  forward. 


16 


Among  those  who  belong  to  this  select  band  of  truly 
royal  souls,  who  are  Poets  of  the  people,  William  Morris, 
Gerald  Massey  and  our  own  James  G.  Clark  are  inspiring 
figures  which  are  still  among  us.  Mr.  Clark,  like  Whit- 
tier,  battled  for  the  emancipation  of  the  black  man. 
With  pen  and  voice  he  performed  valiant  service  for 
the  slaves,  and  when  the  clash  of  arms  came,  as  poet, 
composer  and  singer  he  became  a  threefold  inspira- 
tion in  the  struggle  for  liberty  and  a  broader  justice.  But 
unlike  WThittier,  after  the  war  was  over  this  poet  refused 
to  lay  down  his  armor;  he  knew  the  victory  was  an  incident 
in  the  history  of  progress.  The  enfranchisement  of  the 
negroes  was  not  the  only  enfranchisement  to  be  accom- 
plished; indeed,  the  black  man  had  only  been  freed  from  one 
form  of  slavery;  he  still  remained  ignorant,  and  his  soul 
had  never  been  warmed  into  life  by  justice  and  kindliness. 
Moreover,  the  war,  while  it  had  broken  the  chains  of  chattel 
slavery,  had  promoted  special  privileges,  and  led  to  the 
enactment  of  class  laws  as  gigantic  in  character  as  they 
were  multitudinous  in  number;  these  evils,  tolerated  at 
first  owing  to  the  exigencies  of  the  time,  and  because  the 
attention  of  statesmen  and  patriots  wTas  occupied  with  the 
immediate  life  of  the  Union,  carried  with  them  a  potential 
serfdom  more  far-reaching  and  essentially  tragic  than  the 
slavery  which  had  hitherto  been  recognized  in  the  New 
World.  Far-seeing  minds,  when  the  stress  of  the  war  was 
past,  beheld  in  this  growing  conventionalism,  fostered  by 
special  privilege,  a  menace  to  the  rights  of  individuals, 
which  threatened  to  make  the  republic  what  the  patricians 
through  the  power  of  wealth  made  of  the  ancient  common- 
wealth of  Rome — the  republican  shell,  under  cover  of  which 
the  most  hopeless  oppression  flourished.  Against  the 
aggressiveness  of  wealth  in  the  hands  of  shrewd,  cunning 
and  soulless  men  and  corporations  Mr.  Clark  raised  his 
clarion  voice,  even  more  eloquent  than  in  the  old  days  wrhen 
he  wTrote,  composed  and  sung  for  freedom  and  the  Union 
before  the  black  man  had  been  freed.  It  is  difficult  to  con- 
ceive a  picture  more  inspiring  than  this  patriarch  of  Free- 
dom, whose  brow  is  already  lighted  with  the  dawn  of 
another  life,  fronting  the  morning  with  eyes  of  fire  and 
voice  rich,  full  and  clear,  now  persuasive,  now  imperious, 
but  never  faltering,  as  he  delivers  the  messages  of  eternal 
truth,  progress,  and  justice.  ^ 

I  know  of  no  singer  of  our  time  to  whom  the  following^ 
words,  penned  by  James  Russell  Lowell  in  1844  when  writ- 
ing of  Whittier,  are  so  applicable  as  to  the  poet  we  are  now 


17 


considering.  By  changing  the  word  Whittier  to  this  poet 
in  the  following  we  have  a  more  graphic  and  concise  char- 
acterization of  James  G.  Clark  than  it  would  be  possible  for 
me  to  give: 

He  has  not  put  his  talent  out  at  profitable  interest  by  cater- 
ing to  the  insolent  and  pharisaical  self -esteem  of  the  times,  nor 
has  he  hidden  it  in  the  damask  of  historical  commonplaces, 
or  a  philanthropy  too  universal  to  concern  itself  with  par- 
ticular wrongs,  the  practical  redressing  of  which  is  all  that 
renders  philanthropy  of  value.  Most  poets  are  content  to 
follow  the  spirit  of  their  age  as  pigeons  follow  a  leaking 
grain  cart,  picking  a  kernel  here  and  there  out  of  the  dry 
dust  of  the  past.  Not  so  with  [this  poet].  From  the  heart 
of  the  onset  upon  the  serried  mercenaries  of  every  tyranny, 
the  chord  of  his  iron-strung  lyre  clangs  with  a  martial  and 
triumphant  cheer.-' 

Mr.  Clark,  like  William  Morris,  Mr.  Howells,  and  many 
others  of  our  finest  contemporary  thinkers,  has  become  an 
ardent  social  democrat.  Perhaps  he  is  not  quite  so  extreme 
in  his  views  as  the  English  poet,  but  I  imagine  he  holds 
opinions  much  the  same  as  those  entertained  by  Mr. 
Howells,  and  he  is  even  more  aggressive  than  the  Ameri- 
can novelist,  which  is  saying  much,  when  one  considers  Mr. 
Howells'  fine  and  brave  work  of  recent  years,  and  especially 
his  bold  satire  on  present-day  injustice,  in  "A  Traveller 
from  Altruria." 

In  the  present  paper  I  wish  to  group  together  a  few  poems 
of  humanity,  written  by  Mr.  Clark  since  he  passed  his 
sixtieth  mile-post.  They  are  timely  utterances,  impressing 
the  great  truth  so  nobly  presented  by  Mazzini  that  "Life 
is  a  mission,"  "Life  is  duty,''  and  similarly  expressed  by 
Victor  Hugo  when  he  declares  that  "Life  is  conscience." 

Mr.  Clark  is  one  of  the  poets  of  the  people,  and  he  clothes 
the  eternal  verities  of  which  he  speaks  in  simple  and 
effective  imagery,  sometimes  turning  to  nature,  sometimes 
to  the  Bible,  for  his  figures.  Here  is  a  really  noble  creation, 
a  poem  well  worthy  of  living  in  the  patriotic  heart : 

Freedom's  RcrclUc. 

The  time  has  passed  for  idle  rest: 

Columbia,  from  your  slumber  rise! 
Replace  the  shield  upon  your  breast, 

And  cast  the  yeil  from  off  your  eyes, 
And  view  your  torn  and  stricken  fold- 
By  prowling  wolves  made  desolate- 
Tour  honor  sold  for  alien  gold 
By  traitors  in  your  Halls  of  State. 


18 

Our  mothers  wring  their  fettered  hands; 

Our  sires  fall  fainting  by  the  way; 
The  Lion  robs  them  of  their  lauds, 

The  Eagle  guards  them  to  betray: 
Shall  they  who  kill  through  craft  and  greed 

Receive  a  brand  less  black  than  Cain's? 
Shall  paid  "procurers"  of  the  deed 

Still  revel  in  their  Judas  gains? 

O  daughter  of  that  matchless  Sire, 

Whose  valor  made  your  name  sublime, 
Whose  spirit,  like  a  living  fire, 

Lights  up  the  battlements  of  Time,— 
The  World's  sad  Heart,  with  pleading  moan, 

Breaks  at  your  feet— as  breaks  the  main 
In  ceaseless  prayer  from  zone  to  zone — 

And  shall  it  plead  and  break  in  vain  ? 

Fling  off  that  golden  garb  of  lace 

That  knaves  have  spun  to  mask  your  form, 
And  let  the  lightning  from  your  face 

Gleam  out  upon  the  gathering  storm- 
That  awful  face  whose  silent  look 

Swept  o'er  the  ancient  thrones  of  kings, 
And  like  the  bolts  of  Sinai  shook 

The  base  of  old  established  things. 

The  promise  of  an  age  to  be 

Has  touched  with  gold  the  mountain  mist, 
Its  white  fleets  plow  the  morning  sea, 

Its  flags  the  Morning  Star  has  kissed. 
But  still  the  martyred  ones  of  yore— 

By  tyrants  to  the  scaffold  led  — 
Transfigured  now,  forevermore, 

Gaze  backward  from  the  ages  dead, 

And  ask:   "How  long,  O  Lord!  how  long 

Shall  creeds  conceal  God's  human  side, 
And  Christ  the  God  be  crowned  in  song 

While  Christ  the  man  is  crucified? 
How  long  shall  Mammon's  tongue  of  fraud 

At  Freedom's  Prophets  wag  in  sport, 
While  chartered  murder  stalks  abroad, 

Approved  by  Senate,  Church    and  Court?" 

The  strife  shall  not  forever  last 

'Twixt  cunning  Wrong  and  passive  Truth— 
The  blighting  demon  of  the  Past, 

Chained  to  the  beauteous  form  of  Youth ; 
The  Truth  shall  rise,  its  bonds  shall  break, 

Its  day  with  cloudless  glory  burn. 
The  Right  with  Might  from  slumber  wake, 

And  the  dead  wrong  to  dust  return. 

The  long  night  wanes;  the  stars  wax  dim; 

The  Young  Day  looks  through  bars  of  blood; 
The  air  throbs  with  the  breath  of  Him 

Whose  Pulse  was  in  the  Red-Sea  flood; 


19 


And  flanked  by  mountains,  right  and  left, 
The  People  stand— a  doubting  horde — 

Before  them  heave  the  tides  uucleft, 
Behind  them  flashes  Pharaoh's  sword. 

But  lo!  the  living  God  controls, 

And  marks  the  bounds  of  slavery's  night, 
And  speaks  through  all  the  dauntless  souls 

That  live,  or  perish,  for  the  right. 
His  face  shaU  light  the  People  still, 

His  Hand  shall  cut  the  Sea  in  twain, 
And  sky  and  wave  and  mountain  thrill 

To  Miriam's  triumphant  strain. 


Mr.  Clark  is  a  profoundly  religious  man,  but  he  is  singu- 
larly free  from  that  dogmatism  and  creedal  idolatry,  that 
narrow  and  fanatical  bigotry  and  pharisaisni  which  have 
made  the  church  odious  to  thousands  of  the  finest,  truest 
and  most  religious  natures  of  the  century,  and  which  have 
led  many  of  the  noblest  natures  to  turn  from  Christianity 
as  something  hateful  and  repugnant  to  that  which  is  truest 
and  most  profoundly  divine  in  man's  nature.  He  is  reli- 
gious, as  Jesus  was  religious,  which  is  not  saying  that  he 
would  be  welcomed  into  fashionable  conventional  churches 
to-day  any  more  than  Jesus  in  His  time  was  welcomed 
among  the  orthodox  religionists  of  Judaism. 

Here  is  a  fine  piece  of  work  which  might  be  termed 

A  Voice  in  the  Night. 

I  have  come,  and  the  world  shall  be  shaken 

Like  a  reed  at  the  touch  of  my  rod, 
And  the  kingdoms  of  Time  shall  awaken 

To  the  voice  and  the  summons  of  God; 
No  more  through  the  din  of  the  ages 

Shall  warnings  and  chidings  divine, 
From  the  lips  of  my  prophets  and  sages, 

Be  trampled  like  pearls  before  swine. 

Ye  have  stolen  my  lands  and  my  cattle; 

Ye  have  kept  back  from  labor  its  meed; 
Ye  have  challenged  the  outcasts  to  battle, 

When  they  plead  at  your  feet  in  their  need; 
And  when  clamors  of  hunger  grew  louder, 

And  the  multitudes  prayed  to  be  fed, 
Ye  have  answered  writh  prisons  or  powder 

The  cries  of  your  brothers  for  bread. 

I  turn  from  your  altars  and  arches, 
And  the  mocking  of  steeples  and  domes, 

To  join  in  the  long,  weary  marches 
Of  the  ones  ye  have  robbed  of  their  homes; 


20 


I  share  in  the  sorrows  and  crosses 
Of  the  naked,  the  hungry  and  cold, 

And  dearer  to  me  are  their  losses 
Than  your  gains  and  your  idols  of  gold. 

I  will  wither  the  might  of  the  spoiler; 

I  will  laugh  at  your  dungeons  and  locks; 
The  tyrant  shall  yield  to  the  toiler, 

And  your  judges  eat  grass  like  the  ox; 
For  the  prayers  of  the  poor  have  ascended 

To  be  written  in  lightnings  on  high, 
And  the  wails  of  your  captives  have  blended 

With  the  bolts  that  must  leap  from  the  sky. 

The  thrones  of  your  kings  shall  be  shattered 

And  the  prisoner  and  serf  shall  go  free; 
I  will  harvest  from  seed  that  I  scattered 

On  the  borders  of  blue  Galilee; 
For  I  come  not  alone,  and  a  stranger— 

Lo!  my  reapers  will  sing  through  the  night 
Till  the  star  that  stood  over  the  manger 

Shall  cover  the  world  with  its  light. 


In  the  following  we  have  a  prophetic  picture,  and  with 
the  insight  of  a  true  prophet  Mr.  Clark  shows  that  the  dan- 
ger of  bloodshed  and  ruin  does  not  lie  where  the  paid  hire- 
lings of  plutocracy  are  ever  seeking  through  the  capitalistic 
press  to  make  the  masses  think  danger  lies;  the  supreme 
menace  of  liberty  no  less  than  of  justice  lies  primarily  where 
Mr.  Clark  points  it  out — in  the  citadel  of  lawless  and  con- 
scienceless wealth- 

The  Fall  of  New  Babylon. 

"Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God!" 

This  message  fell  distinct  and  low 
While  wealth,  with  steel  and  iron  shod, 

Crushed  out  the  cries  of  want  and  woe; 
And  from  the  scourged  and  bleeding  throng, 

As  if  to  the  end  the  age-long  tryst, 
With  eyes  rebuking  gilded  Wrong, 

Shone  forth  the  wondrous  face  of  Christ. 

Man  heeded  neither  voice  nor  look— 

For  Mammon's  vampires  asked  for  blood— 
And  what  were  signs  and  omens  took 

The  forms  of  conflict,  flame  and  flood;  /i^ 

The  tempest  down  the  mountains  whirled;  £  "* 

The  lightnings  danced  among  the  crags; 
And  far  below  the  breakers  curled 

And  raised  on  high  their  battle-flags. 


21 


The  ocean's  heart  wih  angry  beats- 
Swayed  by  the  earthquake's  fiery  breath- 
Uplifted  cities,  troops    and  fleets 

And  hurled  them  down  to  wreck  and  death; 
Then  rose  the  death-yell  of  the  Old— 
The  old,  dark  Age  of  ruthless  gain, 
Of  crouching  thieves  and  warriors  bold 
Who  slew  the  just  and  robbed  the  slain. 

For  he  who  led  the  hordes  of  Night— 

The  Monarchs  of  marauding  bands— 
WTent  down  before  the  Sword  of  Light 

That  flashed  upon  the  plundered  lands; 
And  stretched  upon  his  mighty  bier, 

With  broken  helmet  on  his  head, 
And  hands  still  clutching  brand  and  spear, 

The  King  at  last  lay  prone  and  dead. 

The  birds  of  conquest  o'er  him  swooped 

In  baffled  rage  and  terror  wild ; 
The  silent  Fates  around  him  stooped 

To  deck  with  flowers  their  fallen  child; 
And  where  the  powers  of  shore  and  wave 

Together  clashed  in  border  wars, 
With  systems  piled  upon  his  grave, 

They  left  the  meteor-son  of  Mars. 

The  cruel  rule  of  craft  and  pelf 

Had  vanished  like  a  midnight  pall; 
The  cold,  hard  motto,  "Each  for  Self," 

Had  melted  into  "Each  for  All." 
For  every  human  ear  and  heart 

Had  heard  the  message,  "Peace,  be  still!" 
And  sought  through  Freedom's  highest  art 

For  oneness  with  the  Perfect  Will. 

The  star  of  strife  had  ceased  to  reign, 

And  Venus  woke  with  tender  grace 
Between  the  lids  of  sky  and  main 

And  smiled  upon  a  nobler  race; 
And  as  a  brute  foregoes  its  prize 

And  cowers  before  the  gaze  of  day, 
With  backward  look  from  baleful  eyes 

The  wolf  of  Usury  slunk  away. 

From  ocean  rim  to  mountain  height 

All  Nature  sang  of  glad  release; 
The  waters  danced  in  wild  delight 

And  waved  a  million  flags  of  peace; 
For  he  who  held  the  world  in  thrall 

Through  greed  and  fraud  and  power  of  gold, 
Had  seen  the  "writing  on  the  wall," 

And  died  like  Babylon's  King  of  old. 

When  the  wealth-producers  of  the  nation  learn  that  the 
welfare  of  all  is  more  important  than  the  selfish  interests 


of  a  few  petty  men  who  divide  industry  into  warring  camps, 
and  by  the  aid  of  demagogues  who  secretly  serve  the  gold 
power,  prevent  the  concerted  action  of  all  wealth-pro- 
ducers; when  the  toilers  come  to  understand  that  if  they 
unite  but  once  and  speak  at  the  ballot-box,  the  power  of 
plutocracy  will  be  broken  and  the  dawn  of  a  truer  democ- 
racy than  the  world  has  ever  known  will  become  an  accom- 
plished fact;  when  the  breadwinners  of  earth  realize  that 
the  man  who  urges  them  not  to  actively  enter  poli- 
tics is  in  reality  the  most  valiant  voice  that  the  despot- 
ism of  avarice  and  greed  can  invoke,  then  we  shall  have 
reached  a  point  where  the  rule  of  the  few  will  vanish  and 
the  laws  of  equal  justice  will  be  felt  throughout  all  the  rami- 
fications of  government.  This  is  the  supreme  lesson  for 
labor  to  learn.  Karl  Marx  appreciated  it,  and  the  most  far- 
seeing,  single-hearted  apostles  of  humanity  since  his  day 
have  insisted  upon  it.  Toilers  everywhere,  unite — your 
hope  lies  in  union;  knowr  no  creed,  party,  nation,  or  race. 
Let  humanity  be  your  family,  and  justice  your  guiding  star. 
The  motto  of  the  American  Railway  Union  breathes  the 
spirit  of  this  new  slogan,  and  Mr.  Clark,  quick  to  appreciate 
its  significance,  penned  these  lines  suggested  by  the  motto 

"All  for  One  and  One  for  All." 

All  for  one  and  one  for  all. 

With  an  endless  song  and  sweep, 
So  the  billows  rise  and  fall 

On  the  bosom  of  the  deep; 
Louder  in  their  single  speech, 

More  resistless  as  they  roll. 
Broader,  higher  in  their  reach 

For  their  union  with  the  whole. 

Wheeling  systems  sink  and  rise, 

In  one  shoreless  universe, 
And  forever  down  the  skies 

Myriad  stars  one  hymn  rehearse; 
Countless  worlds  salute  the  sun, 

Planets  to  each  other  call, 
Ages  into  cycles  run, 

All  for  one  and  one  for  all. 

Kissed  by  sunshine,  dew  and  shower, 

Leaping  rill  and  living  sod, 
Sea  and  mountain,  tree  and  flower 

Turn  their  faces  up  to  God;  /^ 

And  one  human  Brotherhood,  K  x 

Pulsing  through  a  thousand  lands, 
Reaches  for  one  common  good 

With  its  million,  million  hands. 


23 

Through  all  warring  seas  of  life 

One  vast  current  sunward  rolls, 
And  within  all  outward  strife, 

One  eternal  Right  controls, — 
Right,  at  whose  divine  command 

Slaves  go  free  and  tyrants  fall, 
In  the  might  of  those  who  stand 

All  for  one  and  one  for  all. 

Legislation  is  very  largely  responsible  for  the  multi-mill- 
ionaires of  this  republic,  while  special  privileges  of  some 
kind  or  another  have  in  almost  all  instances  with  which  I  am 
acquainted  been  the  creators  or  the  chief  feeders  of  the 
colossal  fortunes  in  our  midst.  It  would  therefore  seem 
very  clear  that  to  minify  the  dangers  which  all  thoughtful 
people  admit  to-day  threaten  the  republic  through  the  influ- 
ence of  plutocracy,  it  wrill  be  necessary  to  abolish  special 
privilege  and  class  legislation.  This,  moreover,  is 
demanded  by  the  quickened  conscience  of  the  times,  because 
it  meets  the  requirements  of  justice.  If  government  has  any 
legislative  function  it  is  to  foster  justice  and  extend  as  far  as 
possible  the  prosperity,  happiness  and  advancement  of  all 
the  people,  instead  of  lending  its  influence  to  a  few  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  enable  them  to  enslave  the  many. 

Furthermore,  if,  as  can  be  clearly  demonstrated,  the  gov- 
ernment has  by  grants  and  privileges  rendered  possible  the 
acquiring  of  untold  millions  by  a  few^  of  the  people  w^ho  have 
been  the  beneficiaries  of  these  privileges,  it  is  not  so  absurd 
or  idiotic  as  the  mouthpieces  of  the  government-fostered 
plutocracy  would  have  us  believe,  to  insist  that  the  power 
which  has  heretofore  been  exerted  by  the  government  for 
the  aggrandizement  and  benefit  of  the  few,  be  henceforth 
exerted  impartially  toward  all  the  citizens  of  the  republic, 
and  that  the  enormous  disparity  of  fortunes  resulting  from 
iniquitous  class  legislation  and  partial  and  therefore 
vicious  governmental  paternalism  be  in  a  measure  righted 
by  a  graduated  income  tax  and  a  rigid  inheritance  tax; 
these  claims  of  industry  are  eminently  just,  and  were  it  not 
for  the  tremendous  power  already  exerted  by  the  usurer 
class,  they  would  scarcely  be  called  in  question;  but  the 
gold  of  wealth  is  liberally  expended  to  uphold  the  tyranny 
of  capitalism,  and  there  alwrays  have  been  and  doubtless 
for  many  generations  to  come  wyill  be  men  wrho  will  act  as 
sophists" in  upholding  injustice  and  befogging  the  minds  of 
people  who  have  never  learned  to  think  independently; 
hence  the  urgent  need  of  the  sincere  and  conscientious 
prophets,  poets  and  reformers. 


24 

The  following  poem  of  Mr.  Clark  will  awaken  an  echo  in 
thousands  of  the  most  earnest  hearts  of  our  land  wrho  long 
to  join  in  the  songs  of  the  happy,  but  who  hear  so  clearly 
the  cries  of  the  victims  under  the  wheels  that  their  hearts 
grow  heavy  and  their  voices  fail  to  utter  a  sound  in  the 
chorus  of  joy. 

A  Song  of  the  Period. 

"Oh!  weave  us  a  bright  and  cheerful  rhyme, 

Of  our  land  where  the  fig  tree  grows, 
And  the  air  is  sweet  in  the  New-Year  time 

With  the  breath  of  the  new-born  rose." 
This  message  fell  while  the  engine  roared 

By  the  wharf  at  the  city's  feet 
Where  the  white-winged  birds  of  trade  lay  moored 

In  a  vast,  unnumbered  fleet. 

It  filled  my  ears  as  we  moved  away, 

And  the  iron  wheels  rolled  on 
From  the  noisy  town  and  the  sobbing  bay    . 

To  the  wilds  of  Oregon,— 
Where  the  mountain  cloud  and  the  mossy  sod 

Are  kissed  by  the  self -same  rills, 
And  the  torrents  beat  like  the  pulse  of  God 

In  the  hearts  of  the  ancient  hills. 

And  I  sung  of  the  broad  and  generous  fields 
That  were  fresh  with  a  promise  rare; 

Of  the  mother-breast  that  sweetly  yields 
All  life  to  the  people's  prayer. 

But  my  soul  grew  sad  with  a  minor  tone 
From  the  souls  of  the  outcast  poor 

Who  begged  for  work— and  received  a  stone- 
As  they  tramped  o'er  the  lonely  moor. 

Then  I  thought  of  the  Innd  whose  faith  was  sealed 

By  the  blood  of  the  brave  and  great, 
Of  the  strong,  fierce  bird  and  the  starry  shield 

That  guarded  the  halls  of  state; 
But  the  Eagle  watched  o'er  the  idle  gold 

That  was  heaped  on  the  rich  man's  floor, 
While  the  gaunt  wolf  leered  at  the  toiler's  fold 

And  howled  by  the  poor  man's  door. 

I  cannot  join  the  old-time  friends 

In  their  merry  games  and  sports 
While  the  pleading  wail  of  the  poor  ascends 

To  the  Judge  of  the  Upper  Courts; 
And  I  cannot  sing  the  glad,  free  songs 

That  the  world  around  me  sings 
While  my  fellows  move  in  cringing  throngs 

At  the  beck  of  the  gilded  kings. 


The  scales  hang  low  from  the  open  skies— 

That  have  weighed  them,  one  and  all— 
And  the  fiery  letters  gleam  and  rise 

O'er  the  feast  in  the  Palace  Hall, 
But  my  lighter  lays  shall  slumber  on 

The  boughs  of  the  willow  tree 
Till  the  King  is  slain  in  Babylon, 

And  the  captive  hosts  go  free. 

I  will  close  this  paper  with  one  of  the  finest  and  noblest 
poetic  creations  which  our  silver-headed  prophet-poet  of 
the  people  has  composed  since  he  passed  beyond  his  sixtieth 
year.  It  is  brave,  bold  and  severe,  as  the  articulate  voice 
of  justice  is  wont  to  be,  when  confronting  injustice,  but 
through  it,  as  through  all  this  poet's  writings,  we  note  the 
presence  of  that  abiding  faith  which  is  entertained  by  those 
who  believe,  nay  more,  who  know  that  man  is  fronting  the 
dawn,  and  that  eternal  justice  broods  over  the  world. 

Justice  to  "Liberty  Enlightening  the  World." 

O  Liberty!  whose  searching  eyes 

Are  fixed  upon  the  distant  blue — 
As  if  to  pierce  the  veil  that  lies 

Betwixt  the  Old  World  and  the  New— 
What  seekest  thou  in  other  climes, 

And  isles  that  gem  the  salt  sea  foam? 
What  findest  thou  of  woes  and  crimes 

That  dwell  not  in  thy  chosen  home? 

Child  of  the  rainbow  and  the  star, 

Around  whose  path  the  whirlwind  sings, 
Recall  thine  eagles  from  afar 

And  answer  to  my  questionings! 
Call  down  thy  colors  from  the  clouds 

And  nail  them  o'er  the  city  marts, 
And  let  thy  beacon  cheer  the  crowds 

Of  darkened  lives  and  weary  hearts. 

"And  what  art  thou?  to  question  one 

Whose  impulse  every  bosom  warms, 
Whose  eagles  soar  athwart  the  sun, 

And  rock  their  young  upon  the  storms; 
And  who  art  thou?  to  ask  me  why 

I  stand  upon  the  New  World  strands 
And  bid  my  eagles  outward  fly 

To  probe  the  ills  of  other  lands!" 

Men  call  me  "Love"  when— bending  down— 

I  kiss  the  tears  from  sorrow's  face, 
And  "Mercy"  when  I  change  the  frown 

Of  judgment  to  a  smile  of  grace; 
They  call  me  "Justice"  when  I  shift 

Thp  weak  man's  burdens  to  the  strong. 
But  "Vengeance"  when  my  earthquakes  lift 

The  tidal  waves  that  drown  the  wrong. 


26 


I  fix  the  headland  bounds  of  Fate 

Against  which  Error  frets  in  vain; 
I  watch  by  Truth's  eternal  gate, 

And  balance  every  loss  and  gain; 
I  hover  o'er  the  Lethean  deep 

Where  Progress  mourns  her  murdered  braves, 
I  touch  the  waters  where  they  sleep, 

And  lo!  they  wake  from  honored  graves. 

The  empty  boasts  of  power  and  pelf 

Like  fleeting  vapors  round  me  meet; 
The  star  of  destiny  itself 

Climbs  from  the  throne  to  reach  my  feet; 
The  nations  poise  upon  my  scales 

Like  cloudlets  on  the  midday  air; 
I  stand  erect  where  Empire  fails, 

And  wait  serene  amidst  despair. 

"O!  thou  whose  fire-winged  wrord  descends 

Like  lightning  from  unclouded  zones — 
At  whose  decree  oppression  ends, 

And  despots  tremble  on  their  thrones— 
I  bow  to  thy  divining  life 

Which  every  perfect  life  fulfils: 
My  warring  factions  cease  from  strife, 

My  thunders  die  among  the  hills. 

"Full  well  I  know  the  deeds  of  shame 

That  nations  in  my  name  have  done, 
Whose  record  lingers  on  my  fame 

Like  spots  upon  the  morning  sun; 
But  while  my  conquering  legions  stand 

With  sabres  sheathed  and  banners  furled, 
Pray  tell  me  of  my  chosen  band 

Whose  star  and  torch  illume  the  world." 

I  see  a  land  so  broad  and  fair — 

So  free  from  titled  lords  and  kings— 
That  all  the  tribes  seek  refuge  there 

As  young  birds  seek  the  mother-wings; 
The  fig-tree,  orange,  grape,  and  palm 

Grow  wild  upon  her  southern  plains. 
Where  summer  breezes  drift  in  balm, 

And  blooms  caress  the  winter  rains. 
The  oceans  of  the  east  and  west 

Along  her  borders  laugh  and  roar; 
The  mountains  sleep  upon  her  breast, 

And  vast  lakes  down  her  north  lines  pour. 

I  see  a  nation  half  in  chains; 

The  mingled  blood  of  all  the  earth 
Is  surging  through  her  fevered  veins. 

And  striving  for  a  nobler  birth; 
The  New  World's  warp,  the  Old  World's  web 

In  all  her  garments  come  and  go, 
While  from  her  life  the  old  taints  ebb 

And  new  ones  rush  with  fiercer  flow; 


Her  snowy  sails,  her  keels  and  helms 
Go  forth  with  stores  of  fruit  and  bread 

To  all  the  kingdoms,  climes,  and  realms 
Where  man  is  asking  to  be  fed. 

Her  star-crowned  head  proclaims  the  light 

That  seers  and  poets  long  have  sung, 
Her  feet  and  skirts  are  wrapped  in  night 

Where  Wrong  is  old  and  Hope  is  young; 
No  more  the  lion  treads  her  coast 

In  war's  red  pomp  and  force  arrayed; 
He  leads  a  far  more  cruel  host 

That  plunders  by  the  laws  of  trade. 

Her  soldier  band,  whose  sabre  stroke 

Released  from  bonds  four  million  lives, 
Are  burdened  by  a  usurer's  yoke 

More  galling  than  the  black  man's  gyves; 
Though  gone  the  auction  block  of  old, 

The  soul  of  slavery  lingers  still; 
The  chains  are  forged  of  power  and  gold 

To  bind  the  white  serf's  brain  and  will. 

The  poor  man,  robbed  of  lands  he  earned, 

Goes  wandering  homeless  o'er  the  moor; 
And  eagles,  into  vultures  turned, 

Stand  guard  beside  the  rich  man's  door; 
The  masses  move  with  fettered  feet; 

The  classes  feast  on  Labor's  toil, 
The  eagles  wTith  the  lions  meet, 

To  gather  and  divide  the  spoil. 

I  am  not  blind;  I  see  and  feel, 

While  Mammon  rules  the  broad  domain, 
And  stretches  forth  his  hand  to  steal 

The  garnered  sheaves  of  ripened  grain. 
I  am  not  deaf,  I  am  not  dead, 

Though  mercy  groans  in  travail  pain, 
While  chartered  Murder  rears  its  head, 

And  children  wail  for  fathers  slain. 

No  longer  shall  my  arm  be  stayed, 
No  more  my  trumpet  call  retreat 

When  Truth,  by  lying  lips  betrayed, 
Is  dragged  before  the  judgment  seat; 

The  line  is  crossed,  the  doom  draws  nigh; 
Lo!  Justice  wakes  with  lifted  hand 

To  write  her  mandate  in  the  sky, 
And  not  upon  the  shifting  sand. 

"But  Justice,  listen;  and  behold; 

My  star  upon  the  darkness  gleams, 
My  upraised  torch  has  not  grown  cold; 

The  world  is  moaning  in   her  dreams; 
In  dreams  of  grander  conflicts  won, 

She  yearns  for  freedom,  light  and  air; 
And  can  the  child  of  Washir  ton 

Be  dumb  to  her  unanswered  prayer?" 


28 


The  ages  cannot  pause  to  wait 

The  counter-moves  of  Mammon's  horde. 
While  Labor  lingers  at  the  gate 

To  beg  the  crumbs  from  Dives'  board; 
The  world  shall  onward,  sunward  swing 

Till  torch  and  star  are  merged  in  light. 
And  all  the  nations  rise  and  sing 

Their  triumph  o'er  the  powers  of  night. 

I  see  a  mighty  feast  outspread, 

Where  gilded  Lords  their  honors  wear; 
The  banquet  king  sits  at  their  head; 

The  guests  are  drunk  on  vintage  rare; 
And  far  below  on  every  side, 

No  more  by  cringing  fear  subdued, 
And  murmuring  like  a  rising  tide, 

I  see  the  countless  multitude. 

As  rivers  to  the  ocean  roll, 

All  tongues  and  races  join  the  throng, 
One  purpose  burning  in  each  soul, 

And  on  their  lips  a  single  song; 
One  common  cause,  one  flag  unfurled, 

They  kneel  to  neither  king  nor  clan; 
Their  country  is  the  round,  wide  world, 

Their  creed  the  brotherhood  of  man. 

The  feast  goes  on;  the  proud  rejoice; 

They  hear  a  sound  of  distant  waves; 
They  think  it  but  the  torrent's  voice 

Complaining  through  the  highland  caves; 
It  is  no  mountain  stream,  that  leaps 

Rebellious  from  its  rocky  bands; 
It  is  the  lifting  of  the  deeps, 

The  sinking  of  the  ancient  lands. 

Resistless  as  the  pulse  of  doom, 

The  ocean  swings  from  shore  to  shore: 
And  frightened  kings  flit  through  the  gloom, 

Like  stars  that  fall  to  rise  no  more. 
The  high  sea-walls  of  caste  are  gone, 

The  pent-up  floods  their  chains  have  burst, 
The  toilers  face  the  golden  dawn, 

The  first  are  last,  the  last  are  first. 

The  Old  goes  down,  the  New  ascends, 

Its  sunny  isles  in  glory  rise; 
A  rainbow  o'er  the  defuge  bends, 

And  Labor's  curse  dissolves  and  dies; 
The  gods  of  gold  no  more  hold  sway, 

The  people  bow  to  truth  alone, 
And  He  whose  voice  the  tides  obey 

Remains  forever  with  His  own. 

t 


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PROSPECTUS  OF  THE  ARENA  FOR  1896. 


The  Arena  is  a  magazine  which  no  person 
can  afford  to  ignore  if  we  would  keep  up  with 
the  struggle  of  the  progressive  party  in  Amer- 
ica.-WILLI AM  T.  STEAD,  in  English  "Re- 
view of  Reviews." 


The  Arena, 


The  People's  Review. 
Free,   Frank,   Fearless,  Un- 
muzzled, and  Unsubsidized. 


Recognized  as  the  Leading  Progressive,  Liberal,  and 
Reformative  Review  in  the  English-Speaking  World. 

*         *         * 

For  1896  will  be  stronger,  brighter,  abler,  and 
more  attractive  than  ever. 


THIS  Review,  which  one  critic  characterizes  as  «'  the  leading  literary,  progressive 
and  reformative  Review  published  in  the  English-speaking  world,"  will,  during  the  en- 
suing year,  be  invaluable  to  all  people  who  think,  and  especially  indispensable  to  those 
who  desire  to  investigate  root  problems  which  affect  civilization. 

We  have  perfected  arrangements  with  leading  thinkers  of  America  and  Europe 
which  enable  us  to  say  that  THE  ARENA  for  1896  will  be  absolutely  indispensable  to 
thoughtful  people  who  love  purity,  who  think  below  the  surface,  and  who  are  inter- 
ested in  all  the  great  fundamental 

I.  Social,  III.  Economical,  V.  Educational,  VII.  Religious, 

II.  Ethical,          IV.  Political,  VI.  Scientific,  VIII.  Psychical 

problems  which  are  challenging  the  attention  of  the  most  thoughtful  minds  of  the 
world  to-day.  For  obvious  reasons,  at  present  it  is  only  wise  or  possible  to  make  a 
preliminary  announcement  of  the  good  things  in  store  for  our  readers.  We  desire  to 
state  before  mentioning  a  few  of  the  strong  attractions  which  will  appear  in  early  num- 
bers, that  we  have  arranged  for  many  striking  features  which  will  greatly  add  to  the 
intrinsic  value  and  to  the  attractiveness  of  THE  ARENA,  and  which  will  be  announced 
from  time  to  time. 


SOME    EMINENT   WRITERS  WHO    WILL    CONTRIBUTE 
TO  EARLY  ISSUES  OF  THE  ARENA. 

' 


we  give  a  partial  list  of  some  eminent  thinkers  who  have  prepared 
for  early  issues  of  THE  ARENA,  in  order  to  let  our  readers  see  how  rich 
in  interest  THE  ARENA  will  be.  A  number  of  eminent  thinkers  are  preparing 
special  papers  which  will  be  duly  announced  ;  but  the  following  are  among  the 
many  brilliant  writers  whose  contributions  will  appear  within  the  next  three 
months. 


11  THE   ARENA 

UNITED  STATES  SENATOR  JOHN  T.  MORGAN,  of  Alabama.  tno 

REV.  MINOT  J.  SAVAGE,  of  Unity  Church,  Boston,  Mass.  ^  '  'O 

PROF.  RICHARD  T.  ELY,  of  University  of  Wisconsin,  Madison,  Wis. 

REV.  LYMAN  ABBOTT,  of  Plymouth  Church,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 

PROF.  FRANK  PARSONS,  of  Boston  University  School  of  Law,  Boston. 

REV.  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE,  of  Boston. 

HELEN  H.  "GARDENER,  of  Boston. 

PROF.  GEORGE  D.  HERRON,  of  Iowa  College. 

HON.  WALTER  CLARK,  LL.  D.,  of  the  Supreme  Bench  of  North  Carolina. 

REV.  JOHN  W.  CHADWICK,  D.  D.,  of  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 

POSTMASTER  GENERAL  WILLIAM  L.  WILSON. 

PROF.  JOSEPH  RODES  BUCHANAN,  M.  D. 

JAMES  G.  CLARK,  the  people's  poet. 

UNITED  STATES  SENATOR  MARION  BUTLER,  of  North  Carolina. 

J.  HEBER  SMITH,  M.  D.,  of  Boston. 


SOME  SPECIAL  FEATURES. 


Among  the  important'  series  of  papers  which  will  appear  during  the  ensuing  year,  we 
mention  the  following : 

*  I.     The  Relation  of  Jesus  to  Social  Problems  of  To-day  ;  by  Prof. 
George  D.  Herron,  of  Iowa  College. 

A  series  of  papers  dealing  with  this  problem,  by  the  modern  Savonarola  of  Prot- 
estantism. 

II.  Justice  Walter  Clark,  LL.  D.,  of  the  Supreme  Bench  of  North 

Carolina,  on  Mexico  and  the  Silver  Question 

in  Our  Sister  Republic. 

A  series  of  magnificently  illustrated  papers. 

So  many  confusing  statements  have  been  made  on  this  subject  that  we  realize  the 
importance  of  obtaining  the  absolute  facts  relating  to  the  question,  gathered  by  a  gen- 
tleman who  possesses  the  qualifications  for  weighing  the  pros  and  cons,  judicially  and 
calmly,  and  who  enjoys  the  confidence  of  the  people.  We  have  made  special  arrange- 
ments with  this  leading  American  jurist  to  visit  Mexico  and  give  our  readers  the  bene- 
fit of  a  careful  survey  of  the  question.  It  will  be  remembered  that  Justice  Clark  after 
honorable  service  on  the  Supreme  Bench  of  his  State  so  won  the  confidence  of  the 
people  that  he  was  reflected  by  the  combined  vote  of  all  parties  in  North  Carolina 
at  the  last  election.  These  important  papers  will  be  rendered  doubly  attractive  by 
fine  illustrations,  and  will  be  indispensable  to  thoughtful  people  interested  in  the  money 
question. 

III.  Natural  Monopolies  and  the  People. 

Should  the  Government  own  the  Telegraph  ?  will  be  ably  discussed  by  a  number  of 
our  leading  thinkers  in  early  issues  of  THE  ARENA,  including  such  thinkers  as  Prof. 
Richard  T.  Ely,  Prof.  Frank  Parsons,  Justice  Walter  Clark,  Postmaster-General  Wil- 
son, and  Rev.  Lyman  Abbott.  This  discussion  will  be  followed  by  equally  able  and 
interesting  discussions  on  other  leading  problems  relating  to  the  people  and  natural 
monopolies.  In  this  connection  we  desire  to  state  that  Prof.  Frank  Parsons,  of  the 
Faculty  of  the  Boston  University  School  of  Law,  will  contribute  a  series  of  papejjs  to 
THE  ARENA  for  1896  on  the  Rights  and  Duties  of  the  people  in  regard  to  MunF>J, 
State,  and  Government  ownership  of  natural  monopolies,  which  will  be  of  great*  "  ,' 
to  all  thoughtful  people  who  desire  to  see  the  era  of  plunder  and  political  debauchery 
superseded  by  a  democracy  in  something  more  than  an  empty  name. 

IV.  Exhaustive  Bibliographies  of  Vital  Social,  Political,  and  Eco- 
nomic Problems. 

Beginning  with  the  December  issue,  we  have  arranged  to  publish  monthly  carefully 
compiled  bibliographies  which  will  give  our  readers  a  complete  list  of  the  most  valua- 


PROSPECTUS    FOR    1896.  Hi 

ble  works  and  discussions  on  the  great  questions  now  uppermost  in  the  minds  of 
social  reformers.  Thus,  for  example,  the  opening  paper  will  deal  with  the  Land 
Question,  and  will  be  compiled  for  THE  ARENA  by  Prof.  Thomas  E.  Will,  A.  M.  It 
will  be  followed  by  an  equally  exhaustive  bibliography  dealing  with  the  literature  relat- 
ing to  the  Swiss  innovations  or  ideal  republican  measures  so  successfully  inaugurated 
by  the  little  Alpine  Republic.  The  third  will  deal  with  the  literature  of  Socialism. 
Each  issue  will  contain  carefully  prepared  bibliographies  which  will  be  invaluable  to 
all  students  of  political,  social,  and  economic  problems,  and  which  no  thoughtful  man 
or  woman  of  the  present  time  can  afford  to  be  without. 

V.  Why  the  Wealth-Producers  are  Opposed  to  the  Worship  of 

the  Golden  Calf. 

A  series  of  papers  of  great  value  from  America's  leading  statesmen  and  thinkers, 
showing  why  the  wealth-producers  are  irrevocably  opposed  to  the  policy  of  the  Bank 
of  England  and  the  American  Tories.  The  opening  paper  of  this  series  has  been 
prepared  by  United  States  Senator  John  T.  Morgan,  of  Alabama,  and  is  entitled  Why 
the  South  Wants  Free  Silver. 

This  will  be  followed  by  a  historical  paper  exposing  the  conspiracy  of  the  Wall- 
Street  gamblers  and  the  usurer  class  of  Europe  and  America  against  the  prosperity  of 
the  wealth-producers  of  America,  by  the  most  eminent  and  popular  living  American 
historian,  Dr.  John  Clark  Ridpath,  LL.D.  Senator  Marion  Butler,  of  North  Carolina, 
and  other  representative  statesmen  who  have  refused  to  take  their  orders  from  the 
gamblers  of  Wall  Street,  will  ably  present  the  cause  of  sound  and  honest  finance 
versus  the  selfish  and  essentially  dishonest  policy  of  the  usurer  class.  These  papers 
•will  be  of  great  value  to  patriotic  Americans  during  the  momentous  struggle  now  at  hand 
between  the  Bank  of  England  and  her  rllies,  and  the  home-makers  and  wealth-pro- 
ducers of  the  Republic. 

VI.  Thinking  Women  in  the  Arena. 

THE  ARENA  for  next  year  will  contain  papers  each  month  from  representative 
thinkers  among  our  leading  women  on  vital  and  fundamental  issues  which  affect 
present-day  life.  The  subject  of  women's  enfranchisement  will  also  be  exhaustively 
discussed  in  a  series  of  brilliant  papers. 

VII.  Biographical,  Historical,  and  Reminiscent  Papers, 

Dealing  with  great  lives,  thrilling  passages  in  history,  and  memorable  moments 
spent  with  the  moulders  of  thought  and  builders  of  civilization  by  leading  thinkers  of 
America  and  Europe,  will  constitute  a  delightful  and  educational  feature  of  THE 
ARENA  for  1896.  In  this  connection  we  desire  to  mention  a  series  of  striking  PEN 
PICTURES  OF  THE  GREAT  SOCIAL  AND  POLITICAL  CRISES  OF  THE  CENTURY  IN  THE 
ENGLISH-SPEAKING  WORLD,  BY  RICHARD  J.  HINTON,  WITH  PERSONAL  REMINIS- 
CENCES. 

These  papers  will  give  graphic  pictures  of  the  great  Corn  Law  agitation  in  England 
and  the  triumph  of  the  people  in  a  surprisingly  short  time  after  all  seemed  hopeless. 
Incidentally  they  will  contain  thumb-nail  sketches  of  Gerald  Massey,  Charles  Mackay, 
John  Bright,  and  other  shining  lights  of  that  great  conflict.  The  Boston  of  the  Fifties 
will  be  another  subject  discussed,  with  pen  pictures  of  Emerson,  Phillips,  Sumner, 
Garrison,  Parker,  and  other  leading  lights  of  the  great  moral  crusade  for  abolition. 
Other  papers  dealing  with  conflicts  scarcely  less  interesting  will  also  be  features  of  this 
series.  These  articles  will  be  properly  illustrated. 


VIII.  The  New  Psychology  and  Psychic  Research. 

The  progress  being  made  in  the  realm  of  psychical  science  by  the  demonstrations 
of  rejy^j  years  made  by  such  leading  scientists  as  Prof.  Oliver  Lodge  of  England  and 
otb'  ^jnikers  no  less  eminent  have  corroborated  in  a  large  way  the  claims  of  Dr. 
Al^iiffflussel  Wallace,  Prof.  Croekes  and  other  pioneer  psychical  scientists  who 
blazed  the  way  in  the  field  of  psychical  research.  As  this  realm,  more  than  any  other, 
promises  to  furnish  proofs  which  will  neutralize  the  soul-deadening  materialism  of  the 
church  and  society  of  to-day,  we  have  ever  given  space  to  psychical  research,  and  in  1896 
purpose  to  publish  a  series  of  papers  of  special  value  to  thoughtful  men  and  women. 
Metaphysical  and  occult  studies  by  eminent  thinkers  will  also  be  features  of  THE 
ARENA  for  the  coming  year.  A  SERIES  OF  PAPERS  OF  SPECIAL  INTEREST  and  value 


THE    ARENA. 

has  been  promised  by  the  scholarly  physician,  J.  Heber  Smith,  M.  D.,  of  Boston,  on 
Man  and  his  relation  to  the  Solar  System  as  a  subject  for  natural  research  and  scien- 
tific inquiry. 

IX.  Papers  by  Mr.  Flower. 

On  the  conclusion  of  his  series  of  papers  on  ""Wellsprings  and  Feeders 
of  Immorality,"  the  Editor  of  THE  ARENA  will  give  a  series  of  discussions  under 
the  general  heading,  "  Wellsprings  of  Life,"  which  it  is  believed  will  be  in- 
spiring and  helpful  at  the  present  crisis.  Among  the  first  papers  of  this  series 
will  be:  I.  THE  POWER  OF  THE  IMAGINATION  AND  THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  HIGH 
IDEALS.  II.  THE  REDEMPTIVE  POWER  OF  LOVE.  III.  TRUE  EDUCATION  AND  WHAT 
IT  CAN  ACCOMPLISH.  IV.  CRIME  AND  OUR  TREATMENT  OF  CRIMINALS. 

X.  The  Battle  for  "Higher  Morality          jfc* 

Will  be  vigorously  carried  on,  during  the  ensuing  year,  against  the  crying  evils  and 
crimes  which  are  debasing  and  debauching  our  people. 

XI.  Educational,  Ethical,  and  Religious 

Questions,  using  these  terms  in  their  broad  and  true  sense  as  they  relate  to 
the  development  of  the  highest  in  man,  the  elevation  of  morals  and  the  supremacy  of 
the  divine  over  the  animal,  will  be  presented  in  a  masterly  manner  by  broad-minded 
scholars  of  the  new  time. 

XII.  Fiction. 
A  brilliant  Novel  by  WILL  ALLEN  DROMGOOLE. 

A  novel  of  great  interest  and  strength  opens  in  the  December  ARENA  and  will  run 
for  the  first  half  of  the  year.  It  is  entitled  A  VALLEY  PATH  and  is  a  story  of 
Tennessee.  There  will  also  be  charming  short  stories  and  sketches  in  each  number 
which  will  interest  all  members  of  the  families  into  which  THE  ARENA  goes. 

XIII.  Illustrations. 

The  portraits  of  eminent  thinkers  with  their  autographs  which  have  proved 
such  a  popular  feature  of  this  review  in  the  past  will  be  rendered  especially  attractive 
in  the  future,  as  our  arrangements  are  such  that  the  pictures  will  be  executed  with 
superior  excellence  and  will  prove  a  feature  of  great  interest  to  all  our  readers.  In 
addition  to  these  portraits  and  autographs,  we  have  arranged  for  one  handsomely 
illustrated  paper  for  each  issue  of  THE  ARENA. 

BOOK    REVIEWS. 

The  popular  reviews  of  important  works  will  continue  a  feature  of  THE  ARENA 
for  1896,  and  in  a  word,  no  money,  time,  or  care  will  be  spared  in  making  THE  ARENA 
a  review  that  every  man  and  woman  who  desires  to  keep  abreast  of  the  live  and  vital 
problems  of  our  age  will  find  indispensable,  and  a  magazine  which  all  the  friends  of 
justice,  morality,  and  progress  will  be  proud  of. 

FROM  FIVE  DOLLARS  TO  THREE  DOLLARS. 

Beginning  with   our   December  issue   the   price   of  the  ARENA 

will  be  Reduced  from  $5.00  to  $3.00. 

We  have  received  hundreds  of  letters  from  all  sections  of  the  country  urging  us 
to  reduce  the  price  of  our  review.  Friends  have  urged  that  while  it  was  the  one 
review  in  America  which  was  entitled  to  the  name  of  the  PEOPLE'S  REVIEW,  and 
although  they  fully  appreciated  the  fact  that  it  was  always  true  to  the  cause  of  the 
wealth-producers,  tens  of  thousands  of  ardent  admirers  of  THE  ARENA  were  un 
to  purchase  it,  owing  to  its  price.  We,  therefore,  last  summer  sent  out  a  trial  propos 
tion  to  test  the  point  and  see  whether  the  increase  of  circulation  woFM,  uistify 
us  in  reducing  the  price  to  $3.00.  The  results  have  more  than  met  ow  .  ^  ;nds' 
expectations.  We,  therefore,  will  begin  Volume  XV.  at  $3.00,  and  will  receive  all 
orders  beginning  with  December  at  this  rate. 

ARENA   PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 

Copley  Square,  Boston. 


The  New  Time: 


New  York. 


5 


Herald, 


"J* 


St.  Louis,  Mo. 


Christian 
Evangelist. 


A  Plea  for  the  Union  of  the  Moral   Forces 
for  Practical  Progress. 

Extra  cloth,  $1.00  ;    paper,  5O  cents. 
A'worthy  companion  to  "Civilization's  Inferno."     Constructive  in  character  and  abounding 

in  helpful  suggestions. 
Current  opinion  of  leading  American  journals. 

It  is  a  fervent  plea  for  the  union  and  practical  co-operation  of  all  those  who  are 
interested  in  the  welfare  of  humanity,  and  who  believe  that  it  is  their  duty  to  do  their 
utmost  toward  alleviating  the  sufferings  of  their  less  fortunate  fellow  mortals.  Mr.  Flower 
is  a  firm  believer  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  the  spirit  of  fraternity  and  justice,  and  in  this 
little  book  he  suggests  how  this  spirit  may  be  fostered  throughout  the  United  States. 
There  are  many  loving  souls,  he  claims,  in  every  city,  town  and  village,  who  would  fain 
spend  most  of  their  lives  in  aiding  their  fellows,  and  he  maintains  that  a  wondrous 
amount  of  good  would  be  the  result  if  only  these  scattered  children  of  light  could  be 
properly  organized.  Undoubtedly  he  is  right,  and  it  would  not  surprise  us  if  this  idea 
took  root.  We  may  not  all  possess  Mr.  Flower's  enthusiasm,  but  we  must  all  admire  the 
eloquence  with  which  he  pictures  the  "  new  time"  for  which  he  yearns,  the  time  when  all 
men  will  be  brothers  and  justice  will  rule  the  earth. — New  York  Herald. 

The  inspiration  of  a  new  social  order  seems  to  have  suddenly  assumed  the  proportions 
of  a  contagion.  Prophets  are  springing  up  all  over  the  land,  aud  new  books  from  every 
quarter  of  the  globe.  The  real  import  of  God's  love  for  the  world  seems  to  be  dawning 
upon  the  mind  of  thinkers  for  the  first  time  in  social  history,  and  reformers  are  just 
beginning  to  catch  the  inspiration  of  the  Christ-life.  These  books  are  by  no  means 
accordant  as  yet,  but  they  are  sufficiently  harmonious  in  design  to  impress  the  student 
with  the  fact  that  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  about  to  begin  on  earth.  Almost  all  modern 
writers  on  social  conditions  are  so  imbued  with  the  altruistic  spirit  that  altruism  seems  to 
be  the  "Elias''  of  the  new  era. 

So  prominent  indeed  is  this  spirit  in  the  above  work  that  one  almost  feels  that  its 
author  is  the  John  the  Baptist  of  the  time  about  which  he  prophesies,  and  that  he  should 
at  once  demand  baptism  at  his  hands  —  that  is,  a  baptism  of  his  spirit.  We  cannot  have 
too  many  such  books  as  this  at  this  time.  It  was  not  written  for  the  sake  of  the  book  nor 
its  author,  but  of  humanity.  It  is  a  plain  yet  earnest  and  vigorous  presentation  of  some 
of  our  social  conditions,  with  suggestions,  not  a  few  of  which  are  entirely  practical  and 
full  of  promise.  It  has  little  of  the  visionary  and  speculative  in  it  and  proposes  imme- 
diate action  upon  practical  grounds  for  the  purpose  of  the  earliest  possible  relief  and 
solution  of  our  troubles. — Christian  Evangelist,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 

It  has  a  pertinence  and  value  for  all  who  have  read  and  thought  about  the  social  prob- 
lems of  our  day;  and  the  information  which  the  author  puts  into  such  a  moderate  com- 
pass will  also  serve  admirably  to  interest  many  in  social  literature  who  have  been 
deterred  by  rumor  from  touching  these  "fantastic  theories.''  "It  is  facts,  facts,  facts, 
which  '  The  New  Time '  marshals  before  the  reader, —  facts  of  the  everyday,  common- 
place, humdrum  life  about  us."  The  reader  will  find  in  this  book  much  food  for  solid, 
hard  thinking.  Here  are  put  into  a  small  compass  a  body  of  concrete  remedial  measures 
for  an  immediate  and  practical  organization  of  social  reform  agencies.  It  shows  homj 
existing  evils  can  be  modified,  and  gives  the  trend  of  contemporary,  social  thought  ana"1 
its  evolutionary  process  toward  its  ultimate  goal  of  the  highest  social  good. —  Boston  £fo»iK 
Journal,  Boston,  Mass. 

Like  whatever  Mr.  Flower  writes,  the  book  has  to  do  with  z.  practical ,  immediaJE 
means,  of  helping  humanity  in  the  throes  of  its  upward  struggle.  Humanity  as  a  rnass,J» 
course  contains  the  leavening  lump  of  spirituality  which  will  ultimately  express  itself  4§JH 
nutter  of  course  in  the  very  reforms  we  so  much  desire.  Equally  of  course  do  the  c^H 
sciously-spiritual  workers  assist  in  this  process  —  this  forms  one  of  the  pleasures  as  well 
as  duties  of  the  enlightened  state. 

In  such  a  cause  we  know  of  no  one  who  does  more  valiant  work  than  Mr.  Flower. 
Convinced  of  -its  "  righteousness,"  he  will  pursue  it  to  its  ultimate  personally,  and  arouse 
in  hosts  of  others  both  desire  and  determination  to  do  likewise.  Such  work  is  of  inesti- 
mable value  —  and  in  this  connection  everyone  should  realize  that  every  person  is  helping 

|*  his  fellow  if  he  but  live  on  the  highest  plane  of  which  he  is  conscious,  also  striving  con- 

stantly to  get  still  higher  by  helping  to  raise  others. — Boston  Ideas,  Boston,  Mass. 

Mr.  Flower  takes  Ins  stand  on  the  sidetof  human  progress.  In  the  book  "  The  New 
Time,"  he  enters  a  vigorous,  earnest  and  touching  plea  for  the  union  of  warring  sects  in  the 
great  cause  of  the  amelioration  of  human  misery,  whether  it  arises  from  poverty  or  guilt. 

Without  being,  in  any  respect,  a  sermon,  Mr.  Flower's  work  has  all  the  force  and  con- 
vincing power  of  the  pulpjt  Indeed  it  has  more,  for  the  pulpit  is  often  enough  the 
vehicle  of  the  denunciation  of  opposing  sects  —  a  fact  which  occasionally  mars  it  useful- 
ness in  the  eyes  of  every  reflecting  man.  Mr.  Flower's  book  touches  briefly  on  the 
cause^  of  much  of  human  suffering  and  crime,  and  proceeds  to  show  how  a  real  and  per- 
ma:u:;ii  union  of  Christian  workers  of  all  denominations  can  be  achieved  and  what  noble 
MBRsults  will  spring  from  such  a  union.  —Daily  Item,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

I      ARENA  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  Copley  Square,  Boston. 


Boston,    riass. 


Boston 
Journal. 


Boston  Ideas. 


l\alv  Itet. 


Civilization's  inferno;  Or,  Studies  in  the  Social  Cellar, 


Price,  cloth,  $1.00;  paper,  50  cents. 


the  sub-cellar, 


This  work  contains  vivid  pen  pictures  of  the  social  cellar  as  Mr.  Flower  found.it.  and  is  o 
less  and  able  presentations  of  the  condition  of  society's  exiles  which  has  ever  been  made. 

It  carries  the  reader  into  the  social  cellar  where  uninvited  poverty  abounds,  and  from  there 
or  the  world  of  the  criminal  poor. 

It  is  rich  in  suggestive  hints,  and  afcould  be  in  the  hands  of  every  thoughtful  man  and  woman  in  America. 

Absorbingly  interesting  and  at  time^jjfvrilling,  no  one  can  read  its  pages  without  being  made  better  for  tlu 


rusal. 


CRITICAL  OPINION  FROM  REPRESENTATIVE  AMERICAN  JOURNALS. 


Boston,  Mass. 


Traveler, 


Christian  Leader. 


Chicago,  III. 

rimes. 


Louisville,  Ky. 

I  Lourier-Journal. 


tlanta,  Qa. 

Constitution. 


troit, 


MiCh 


Princeton  Uni= 
versity. 

A'assan  Literarv 
Magazine. 


It  is  a  truthful  and  graphic  delineation  of  the  condition  of  tlu 
dertow.     Mr.  Flower  has  a  keen  and  profound  sympathy  with  the  dit 
are  laboring  under,  and  he  describes  what  he  has  seen  with  his  ovy  mis  that  I 

chill  one's  blood.     He  does  not  hesitate  to  call  things  by  their  right  names,  and  points  out| 
the  magnitude  of  the  peril,  showing  that  no  palliative  measures  will  satisfy  the  people. 

—  Daily  Herald,  Boston. 

A  book  which  should  b,^  read  and  studied  by*all.     Mr.  Flower's  high  enthusiasm,  th 
artistic  impulse  which  has  guided  his  pen, "together  with  his  intimate  knowledge 
by  personalinvestigation  of  the  matter,  make  his  book  most  admirable.  —  Bosto  < 

A  volume  of  remarkable  interest  and  power,  and  merits  the  careful  attention  of 
students  of  social  problems.-  -Boston  Daily  Traveler. 

He  literally  uncaps  the  pit,  the  hell  on  earth  ;  and  if  there  are  "  the  pleasures  of  sir 
for  a  season,"  it  will  be  seen  that  the  season  is  not  a  long  one.  The  author  dejects  the 
scenes  he  has  witnessed,  and  has  the  moral  purpose — the  passion  fora  better  stau 
which,  enlivening  his  pages,  makes  the  book  as  wholesome  as  it  is  inciting  to  practice 
endeavor.  —  Christian  Leader,  Boston. 

Society,  as  it  ib  now  constituted,  is  nothing  less  than  a  sleeping  volcano.     Who  dare 
to  say  how  soon  the  upheaval  will  come,  or  whether  it  can  be  evaded  by- the  adoption 
promjit  measures  of  relief?     Certainly  the  condition  of  the  lower  social  strata  rails  fc 
immediate  action  on  the  part  of  those  whose  safety  is  at  stake.     Mr.  F.lower  has  accor 
plished  a  sre.at  work,  in  setting  forth  the  exact  truth  of  the  matter,  without  any  effort 
palliation.     It  will  be  well  indeed  for  the  prosperous  classes  ^THift  ^iMfftimflity  K  ube}far 
warned  in  time. — Boston  Beacon. 

It  is  not  only  the  record  made  of  discoveries  during  a  period  of  systematic  sluit 
ming,  but  it  is  also  a  philosophical  view  of  the  dangers  of  the  condition*  which  he 
cusses. —  Chicago  Times. 

The  work  is  a  masterly  prei-'jutation  of  social  conditions  around  us.     These  mal 
vast  problem,  and  it  is  by  such  earnest  thinkers  as  M  "  >M  yer  that  ttes.'will  be  soh 

—  Chicago  Herald. 

A  thoughtful  work  by  a  thjgHPnul  nufti.  and. slv.iud  turn  the  mur4.  of  many  wh*, 
now  ignorant  or  careless  to  the* condition  of  th^'co:  .u'.ess  thousands  w,  o  live  in  the 
cial  cellar."     No  one  can  read  the  book  without 'teeliiig- that  the  author's  d,iagjjosis  of 
case  is  true  and  gives  each  me  his  own  personal  responsibility .  —  t  tial.  Lt 

m.///,.  Ky.  .<r*L 


Wh.,1     mci-ar  Boot!    has  done  for  London,  and  Mr.  Ja\^  •',  !^ii^  f--   .>,  A  Vork, 
'       done  for  cultured   Hoston.     He  is  a  professional  ^rhai,  <$l  letters*  a«J 


Flower  'ia 

-toiy  with  the  skill  and  knack  of  liis  craft.  — Daily  Constitution,  .  ' .  \ni.-n,  Gfcr 

-  A  powerfully  written  book,  presenting  facts  which  'oughlifco  move  •  UsMniost  sluejg 


* 


soul  to  resolve  and  action.     Its  whole  jcs.-on,  sad  as  i*  ' ,-,,  is  P   .;  that  r.eevs^o  be  learfcv 
and  we  will  noi. detract  from  its  complete  i  tin.     tin  fragments;  but, 

sire  to  call  special  attention  to  the  author's  exposhi, ,.  o!  tin.-  t..    .•*,  concerning  \vh:*>  th 
has  been  so  much  scepticism,  that  the  rich  an:   -r.)\,    -»  nclu_r~ai^L  t'">  poor  podrer. 
there  is  any  lingering  belief  or  hope  in  the  mind  0! '.anybody 'that  h:s:^  Uemeiyis  a 
]>artisan  bugaboo,  as  it  has  sometimes  been  styled,  Mr.  Flower's  book  Wf.^oc'./e  tix- 

--  *,  Detroit,  Mich. 

In  this  book  the  great  social  problem  of  the  day"  is  laid  before  the   '< 
portance.its  increasing  dangers  are  pointed- out,  and  p'-actii 
that  is  as  interesting  as  thoughtful.     We  are  glad  to  see  tHPfc' 
and  vices  of  the  class  that  assumes A>r  itself  the  title  of  "' 
demnatioft'they  deserve.     It  is  a  wv/rk  that  has  long  been  needt 
go  far  toward  the  end  it  looks  forward  to  sohbpefull 


ARENA    PI 


.ANY, 


\RK. 


